


Bloody Eyed Tango

by ShadowcrestNightingale



Series: Darkwave Chronicles [6]
Category: Cowboy Bebop
Genre: Callisto - Freeform, Crooked Cops, Dark Past, Drug Use, Loyalty, Organized Crime, Partner, Sting Operation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-06
Updated: 2018-04-14
Packaged: 2019-03-27 17:19:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 17
Words: 27,624
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13885497
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ShadowcrestNightingale/pseuds/ShadowcrestNightingale
Summary: When Jet's buddy, Bob, recruits Spike to pose as an undercover Red Eye dealer to expose a crooked ISSP agent hocking evidence, the dive goes deeper than any of the Bebop crew imagined. Unable to get close to the undercover ex-con they fear the worst. Like many undercover agents, has the role taken over Spike's senses? Will Jet be forced to bring down his partner? Tied to Dragons of the Darkwave and Dead Star Shine.





	1. Session One

_**Bloody Eyed Tango** _

 

_**Session one:** _

A blast of cold wind triggered a bone deep shiver. Spike huddled down deeper. The cot creaked beneath him. His teeth chattered as puffs of breath hung in the frigid air. Shivering made no difference.

 

_Warmth. Have to get warm. Endless cold._

 

The iron scent of blood filled his nose. His stomach churned. Limbs ached. He cracked an eye open, the other swollen shut. Blood stained the blue jumpsuit. With a trembling finger he brushed the crusting of ice off the number emblazoned on the stripe across his chest.

 

_No … this can't be …_

 

He pulled the left sleeve back. Beneath the layers of bruising, the tattoo's bar code marked him—for life. Spike drew his knees close, the electrical burns on his calves stung. His chest tightened, crackling with the Ice Fever every breath he took. Bars held him captive in a tiny cell, the only relief from the constant battle for his life. Outside throngs of thugs battered at their own barred doors, waiting for the release. Waiting to take their pound of flesh.

 

A place reserved for those who would never join society again. A pit of hell ran by the ISSP.

 

Quidlivun Cavus Prison.

 

He shut his eyes and inhaled the ice box air and tried to swallow the panic. But it tore from his throat in a single incoherent scream.

 

Spike's eyes opened. His heart raced as his gripped squeaked across the back of the couch. Sitting up in the middle of the  _ Bebop _ 's living room, he stared down at the thin black tie repeatedly tapping against his sweat-soaked shirt with every panted breath. The rolled back sleeve of his left arm revealed flawless skin where the tattoo had once been. He ran his fingers along the length of the smooth contours just to be certain. Only goosebumps rose up. His suit jacket lay over the arm of the couch where he must have flung it.

 

Both his eyes were wide open. Nothing felt sore, not even his left side where Vicious's sword had cut him. Where the demented ISSP prison guards had repeatedly taken advantage of that wound for what he now knew had been over a year.

 

The fan spun idly overhead, stirring the scent of blood into the air. Blood smeared across the floor. Blood.

 

Spike blinked and gulped a few more breaths to steady himself. His half-asleep brain too muddled to come back to reality. The air was freezing inside the ship. Why was it so damn cold?

 

Ed's laughter broke out behind him. Up on the landing she piled snow into a semblance of crude sculpture that looked something like a mutated Ganymede searat. Ein, wrapped in a scarf, romped around with a bucket swinging from his mouth. Spike had to do a double take, she was bundled up in his red parka. 

 

_Is that kid ever gonna grow up?_

 

She grinned and ruffled the dog's ears. “Come on, Ein, bring the bucket. We need more!”

 

Melt water dripped off the landing. Bemused Spike rubbed a hand through his hair. “Jet's not gonna like this.”

 

Ed turned and waved a hand, smiling ear to ear. “Course he will. It's his present.”

 

“Hey, where's he at?”

 

Taking the bucket from Ein she leaned over the railing and pointed out the door. “Jet is still at the police station with the punching bag.”

 

“Punching bag?” It took him a moment to place it. The bounty. They'd caught a schmuck of a smuggler trying to hide in orbit around Callisto. He hadn't exactly been keen on cooperating. Oh yeah, that explained the blood. And of course things were cold. They were still on the permanently frozen Callisto.

 

By the time he pried himself from his thoughts the landing was empty. With a sigh, he flopped back down on the couch on his side and let his arm hang down, knuckles on the floor.  _ Phew. Am I ever going to be able to close my eyes and not relive what the ISSP did to me? _ He yawned and lengthened his breathing.  _ Now if I can just resume my nap before Jet starts harping at me for being lazy. _

 

Drifting in and out like the tide, Spike barely fell into slumber before the clomping of footsteps dragged him back up. He kept his eyes loosely shut as the door rumbled open.

 

Jet's voice echoed off the metal corridor, “You'd have to ask him, Bob. I'll bet he's still where I left that good for nothing lump. GAH! What the—how did all this snow get in here?”

 

Bob chuckled. “Don't take a detective for that. Pawprints. Where that dog is, your hacker tends to be.”

 

Jet groaned, his palm slapped his bare head, an unmistakable sound. “Edward!”

 

“I'm tellin' yah, Jet, it's a miracle your crew is one of the top out there for cowboys. Anyone who set foot on here would be shocked at how … uhh … ”

 

“Dysfunctional.”

 

“Hey, you said it. But yeah, that is the word. You guys tend to be a perpetual mess.”

 

Spike cracked open an eye and watched the two descend the stairs, hands in the pockets of their arctic gear. Bob reached up and tugged off a fur hat before brushing the icicles from his mustache. “All ribbing aside, I really appreciate this, Jet.”

 

“Hey, don't give it a thought. Course, it's not a done deal yet.” He came to stand right over Spike, arms folded. “You awake, pard?”

 

“Mmm mmm.” Spike replied with a shake of his head, arm still dead weight off the side of the couch.

 

They burst into laughter. “You aren't fooling anyone. Now sit up, Bob and I need to have a word with you.”

 

Spike opened one eye and sighed. “I don't have to sit up to listen.”

 

Jet shrugged and held out a hand to Bob. The officer sat down on the edge of the table and tossed his hat aside. “Need your help with something you are uniquely qualified for, Spike.”

 

“Is it for the ISSP?”

 

“Yes.”

 

Spike rolled over, effectively offering a cold shoulder. “Forget it. The only thing I am interested involving the ISSP is bounty payments.”

 

“I know, I get that. But seriously, I wouldn't ask if I had a better option … well any option. Who better to know how to play a Red Eye deal than you?”

 

Even the name of that drug sent a ripple down his spine. He reached up and grabbed his jacket, pulling it over his head to cover the involuntary shiver. “No.”

 

Bob sighed. “Spike, it's a real quick job. We just need help in flushing out who is behind it. You have the street cred needed for this, even if you blew up the syndicate some would say that was just business. Besides, anyone else less connected with the underbelly would require training.”

 

“Send Faye out. Her assets are a great distraction.”

 

“As much as I admire her skills of deception, she doesn't know the lingo like you do. She'd be spotted in and instant.”

 

Beneath the folds of the jacket, Spike ground his teeth. Why wasn't Jet shutting this conversation down? Heh, now there was an easy solution. “Send the Black Dog in, he could pull it off.”

 

Jet tapped a foot. “No can do, they might know me. Bob is right, hear him out on this one.”

 

When the silence stretched out, Bob stood up and muttered to Jet, “He still sore about what happened?”

 

“You mean prison?”

 

Before Jet could continue, Spike grunted, “No, those wounds have healed. But I haven't forgotten how the ISSP works behind the benevolent facade. I don't owe them any favors. Let the ISSP handle their own shit for a change.”

 

“Spike.” Jet fumbled through his words. “You know I can't disagree with you. Let's face it, we both got shafted by those we trusted. I still can't reconcile what happened at the ISSP's hand, to either of us.”

 

“Can it, old man. I don't want to hear about it.” Spike burrowed deeper under his jacket.

 

With a sigh, Bob brought his hand to his mustache, his voice muffled. “Shame you don't want to help. I thought you might like a shot at a bit of payback. It is, after all, a sting to flush out some crooked cops.

 

Spike shot up, practically flinging his jacket. “Wait, you're giving me permission to plug cops?”

 

Their hands flew up in unison. Jet hastily corrected, “Just like a bounty, you got to bring them in with a pulse, pard! They have to stand trial.”

 

“I didn't!”

 

“I know, I know. But trust me, these guys will.”

 

Bob folded his arms. “Well, what do you say? The jobs all set up. Just need you walk in there and convince them you are legit, hopefully our target shows. You game, Spike?”

 

He cracked his knuckles. “I bring them in, they're incarcerated on Pluto, right?”

 

A smile tugged at the corners of his mustache. “Where else does the scum of the universe belong?” Catching Spike's glower, Bob held up a hand, “Present company excluded.”

 

Images kept vivid by his recurring dreams welled back to Spike, but this time crooked ISSP agents suffered all the indignities in his place. He stood up and swung into his jacket, snapping the double breast closed and adjusting the cuffs. Through half-lidded eyes he fixed Bob with an expression that made the cop do a double take, the dead-eyed stare he used to deliver as a Red Dragon enforcer. “I'm in.”

 

 


	2. Session 2

 

_**Session two:** _

Seated on the couch, Spike propped his crossed legs on the edge of the table. Tendrils of smoke twisted up from the cigarette in his mouth. He'd barely even shifted the entire time Bob laid out the details, just stared at him with that eerie half-lidded gaze of his. It gave Bob the ever-lovin' willies. He'd dealt with many perps and cons before, but none remained as unreadable as Jet's partner.

 

Bob bowed his head. “You can imagine how hard it is to keep an internal investigation under wraps. Well, at last this case led out to the boonies of Callisto when a secretly marked vial from evidence on Ganymede disappeared and turned up in police custody here. I had no idea what I was going to do until I happened to learn that you guys were here.”

 

Rubbing his beard, Jet grinned. “I was wondering why the hell you were on duty out here.”

 

Spike huffed a breath. “So the plan is I just wait at the address and give you the low down on who shows up with the tomato juice?”

 

“Uhhh … ?” Bob rubbed his mustache, his eyes skimming the floor.

 

Folding his arms across his chest, Spike smirked. “Red Eye. Do I need to write that down for you?”

 

Jet clamped a hand over his own mouth and chuckled. “You were right, Bob. You guys are in over your heads if you didn't know a little thing like that.”

 

“Did you?” Spike raised an eyebrow.

 

“Ehhh … ”

 

“Right.” He plucked the cigarette from his mouth and tapped off the ashes.

 

Recovering from the embarrassment, Bob clapped a hand on Spike's shoulder, until the dark glare he received caused him to retract it. Awkwardly he shrugged. “You just go in, collect the info, conduct the deal, and come back. This should be a short a sweet sting.”

 

Both Spike and Jet cocked an eyebrow almost in unison. “You'd think,” Jet beat Spike to the punch, “that he'd never heard what it's like to work with you before.”

 

“Not my fault shit always goes sideways.” Spike pushed up from the couch and held out a hand to Bob. “If you're serious about this gig, hand over the cash for the deal.” Almost faster than Bob could follow, the wad of woolongs vanished from his palm. Spike slouched before him, both hands in his pockets, the picture of a confident, no nonsense syndicate thug.

 

Once more Bob shuddered at the cold expression in those mismatched eyes. The light caught his synthetic eye and hinted at the artificial mechanics that made it work. Bob glanced at Jet. The Black Dog cracked a wry grin. “Didn't I tell you he could do it, Bob? Nobody escapes my partner's critical gaze.”

 

Spike chuckled darkly. He turned and the hem of his suit jacket shifted, revealing a glint of light off his Jericho tucked at his back.

 

Bob let out a breath he didn't know he had been holding as Spike mounted the stairs. He was about to remark, when Ed, dressed in a red parka far too large for her skinny frame, came dancing through the door with a bucket of snow swinging from her hand. At her feet, Ein bounded around with a bucket of his own. She set the bucket down and clapped her hands together, giggling.

 

Spike reached as he passed by and grabbed the parka's collar. In one smooth motion he lifted Ed off the ground and let gravity remove the kid from the parka. He slung it over his shoulder.

 

Deposited on her rump, Ed peered up at Spike's back, he hadn't even broken stride. “Nyyyooo! Ed needs it to fetch more snow.”

 

Jet folded his arms and cleared his throat. “What are you doing bringing that stuff in here?”

 

She leapt up onto the railing and balanced there with her hands in the air. “Frosty wonderland for _Bebop-Bebop_! Ein and Ed are making a pretty sculpture for Jet.” She wriggled her fingers like a whiskers in front of her face. “Ganymede searat.”

 

“Oh Ed!” Jet buried his face. “That won't stay frozen in here. You're just making a mess.”

 

She tried to pick up some of it, but the slush just glopped between her fingers. “Oooo … searat become nothing but seapuddle.” Ein whined and started to lap it up.

 

“Now clean up your mess. And where is Faye?”

 

“Faye-Faye is in her room.” Ed proceeded to fruitlessly scoop the melted slop into the bucket. “Said she didn't want to deal with the moon full of pathetic blue-balled men. What does that mean?”

 

Jet and Bob flushed. Rubbing the back of his neck, Bob glanced toward the door. “Do you mind if I wait up on the bridge until your partner returns? Don't want to be seen coming and going too much.”

 

“Sure thing. Make yourself at home.”

 

* * * * *

 

Hunkered into his parka, Spike leaned against the wall of an abandoned half-constructed building. The flame of his lighter ignited the cigarette and crackled as it took. He flipped the lighter shut and pocketed it. He'd been early at the deals arranged place. He had to laugh. Without anyone to conclude the deal, Bob was initially planning on just staking it out. That would not have worked if this was a seasoned crew. If they could get goods from Ganymede to Callisto, this racket had at least some sense on how to operate.

 

The idea that the crooked cop behind this would show up made him laugh. This was indeed why the ISSP's track record sucked and they relied so heavily on cowboys to do the real work. Only an idiot didn't use a middle-man. The trick was going to be exposing the source. In one deal? Not gonna happen.

 

The woolongs weighed in his pocket. He reached in and grasped them contemplating a scheme to keep the whole wad. Of course that would mean explaining how he 'lost the Red Eye' he was supposed to purchase. Jet would not buy for a second that he'd been mugged. With a sigh, he looked up at the ceiling and stared idly. Time ticked by at a snail's pace.

 

Spike turned ever so slightly and gazed into the shadows, his synthetic eye picking out the silhouette of a man bundled up in dark colors. A case hung by his side. The man slunk through the shadows toward Spike, clearly craning his head to get a better look.

 

Spike dropped his cigarette and used his heel to grind the hissing butt into the snow creeping into the unfinished building. “You aren't foolin' anyone.”

 

A surprised yelp rose into the air.

 

 _Novice._ “I checked this place an hour ago. No footprints. We're alone. Now get over here. I'm tired of waiting in the cold.”

 

At the stern tone, the man hustled out of the shadows, sweat beading on his forehead despite the freezing temps. Spike could hear the man's heartbeat in every breath.

 

_Yup, there goes Bob's plan. Fresh meat grade delivery boy._ Spike inclined his chin. “You got the tomato juice?”

 

The man nodded, his eyes wide he took a step back. “Shit … are you … are you … ”

 

Spike held out a hand for the case.  _First rule of controlling a deal, never treat lackeys with respect._ “I'm not known for my patience.”

 

Frozen in place, the man's jaw hung open. “No way, Spike Spiegel, in the flesh. You survived after that raid on the Red Dragon Syndicate?”

 

Grabbing the case from him, Spike offered him a glare. “Listen, whoever you are … ”

 

“Kev.” The man tugged down his hood, exposing a bright red mohawk. He was marked with gang tattoos and old enough he'd probably entered the circuit around the time of the tower incident. His expression was nothing short of hero worship. “I can't believe I am in your presence!”

 

With a grunt, Spike popped the locks and opened the case. Inside, cradled in the foam, rows of vials caught the faint light. He plucked one out and shoved the open case back into Kev's hands. Holding up the vial, he examined the red fluid inside. Pale, artifacts floated around in it.

 

“All there.” Kev clutched the case and chattered, “Not the premium grade stuff, but it's not half bad on the ratings scale. Since the Red Dragons went down this shit has been harder to get. Supply chain is in tatters with no syndicate to build it back up again. This is a rare score out in these parts, my friend. Go ahead, try it out.”

 

Spike eyed him, narrowing the lid of his synthetic eye. He brought out a Red Eye meter instead and plugged in the vial. A quick push and he watched the gauge top out at yellow. “Weak. This is seriously the best out there?” He dropped the vial back in and almost shut the case.

 

Kev caught the lid and sputtered, “Best I can get for now. I have gotten higher grade, but it's sporadic. Most users out here won't know the difference, Mr. Spiegel sir. They'll pay top price anyway. This place ain't sophisticated like Mars.”

 

Waving a hand, Spike turned as if to go. “Waste of my time.”

 

“Wait!” Shutting the case, Kev ran in front and shoved it at Spike to prevent his retreat. “If you're after the high grade stuff there are ways to get it. Just won't be cheap. Nor easy.” His eyes trembled, now Spike caught the gauntness. The telltale signs of a man who was struggling on the fringe. “Please. Are you trying to set up here? Tell me you are. Nobody messes with you, you made that clear when you took out the whole syndicate that tried to off you. There's a handful of us here trying to start our own. But none of us were ever high up in the brackets. We can run, we can deal in the smalls. But none of us knows how to make the big calls. We're not anywhere near … your caliber.”

 

Spike pushed Kev back and took his time removing a cigarette and lighting it, leaving the man to stew in the awkward silence. Beneath the calm exterior, Spike writhed at the idea of being idolized. The scars of the syndicate bit deep. The lies handed down from above. All the eager young hoods nothing but fresh meat for the sacrifice in the chase of profit. Promises sealed in blood … ended by blade and bullet.

 

Could it **ever** end differently?

 

“Sir?” Kev's meek voice brought the keen focus back to Spike's eyes. The man hugged the case to his chest.

 

Blood drenched visions ran through Spike's mind of the hits he'd carried out when a low grade delivery boy failed. He couldn't leave him to that chance. _Shit._ He bowed his head and pulled out the wad of woolongs. “Here.”

 

Kev took the cash and beamed. Eagerly he presented the case to Spike. “Hold on a sec.” He scribbled numbers on a piece of paper. “Call me if you want more.”

 

Spike took it and glanced over his shoulder, fixing Kev with his synthetic eye. His identity burned into his memory. His chest tightened. The words haunted him. _Nobody messes with you, you made that clear when you took out the whole syndicate that tried to off you. There's a handful of us here trying to start our own … nowhere near your caliber._

 

Footsteps echoed as they parted ways. The delivery boy vanished into the shadows. But he left behind a ghost haunting Spike's thoughts all the way back along the twisted alleys back to the _Bebop._

 

* * * * *

 

Spike reclined on the couch, smoking his third cigarette since returning. Seated in the chair, Bob held up a scanner to each of the vials in the case. Hope shined in his eyes each time. And each time the device beeped it dashed away. After the last one, he shut the case and pushed it aside. “Well, just our luck. These are all clean. No ties.”

 

“Doesn't matter.” Spike shrugged. “Your man didn't show. Trust me, there was nothing ISSP about him. And he didn't show signs of having the proper connections. You'll have to go fishing again.”

 

Jet leaned on the railing. “Sorry, Bob. Would have been nice. On the bright side, this case is off the market.”

 

Shaking his head, Bob sighed. But he didn't get to reply before Spike tapped the case with his foot. “Until it gets entered as evidence and hocked right back out on a black deal.” To further his point, Spike brought his Jericho out and set it on the table, finger tracing the serial number. “Laundering is just a point of knowing where you can go that no one gives a shit.”

 

Jet wandered down and picked up the gun studying it close. “Damn, it really is the same one.”

 

“Ask yourself how my gun got out of evidence on Mars and into a pawn shop on Ganymede?”

 

Jet and Bob eyed one another grimly. Handing the gun back, Jet folded his arms. “There's a trail to follow. The key is to find a weak member who will give it away and offer a lead to follow back up the supply stream.”

 

Leaning on his elbows, Bob hung his head. “That was the only potential I had, and it was difficult enough to set up. The longer this case drags out, the more the chance of whoever is behind this catching wind of the concealed investigation.”

 

Spike let his head fall back and rest on the top if the couch. A thread of smoke drifted into the air from his cigarette. He left it between his lips as he watched the diffusion. “If it's your only lead, take a page from Jet's book, don't let it go.” He plucked out the piece of paper and dropped it on the table.

 

Bob stuttered, “Who's number is that?”

 

“Kid said to call him. He can get more.” Spike shut his eyes. “I tried to tell you that even fresh meat don't spill their guts the first time. You have to work them to gain trust. Street cred only gets so much. What you're after takes more finesse.”

 

“Spike.” Bob's voice dripped with desperation. “I hate to ask it … but … ”

 

He opened his eyes and stared up at the ceiling fan lazily spinning just waiting for the inevitable.

 

 


	3. Session 3

 

_**Session three:** _

The pool balls clacked, breaking the racked group and scattering across the table. As he waited for them to roll to a stop, Spike took a gulp of his whiskey neat and set it back on the rail. He leaned over the table, lining up a bump shot for number one in the corner pocket. It was impossible to ignore the chatter all around him.

 

It had taken days of covert discussions to play Kev into the right angle seemingly of his own accord. Spike couldn't seem too disinterested or they'd lose the only lead. Likewise, too eager and the man would smell a rat. At last they agreed to meet. All of them. Over a dozen men with a handful of teenage boys had trickled into the pool hall over the last hour. At a glance Spike assessed each of their experience levels. The majority had a handful of years tops in a gang. Their bravado had yet to be beaten from them. These fools boasted and bragged, showing their scars and tattoos as though they should mean something to the galaxy. Then there were the more experienced thugs. At least two had made it into the ranks as hitmen, Spike spotted their quiet intimidation like looking in a mirror. Another two he pegged as at least having some rank in drug running, probably more corporate level. Paper-pushers. None were officers. He alone was the closest to a capo in this ragtag collection.

 

The odds, as usual, were unfavorable.

 

Before the wannabe syndicate members even arrived Spike had taken solitary command of a pool table, playing game after game against himself. Each strike at the cue ball focused on channeling his former self. Step by step he forced the facade of who had once been. Cold, went the two ball. Calculating, went the seven ball. Merciless, sunk the eight.

 

“Is he really a Red Dragon?” A whisper carried through as he drew back the cue. Similar remarks had already circulated, over and over again. Some more colorful than others.

 

“That scrawny broomstick? No way. I could sweep the floor with him.” A burly tattooed man in a chain laden black leather jacket slammed his drink down. “Besides, there are no more Red Dragons. Any that were left after the tower blew up were arrested or slunk off into hiding. That syndicate is long dead and buried.”

 

“But Chains, Kev said this guy is the real deal. He used to be a serious high rank enforcer. Said that in the middle of the syndicate coup he went right into their headquarters and leveled the place cause they were gonna kill him. He got to them first. Even slaughtered his old partner.”

 

“You believe everything you hear. That couldn't have been one person. I was in Tharsis when that happened. Saw the building from the street. Looked like a military strike, grenades, C-4 and shit like that.” Chains pushed up from his chair and cracked his knuckles. “No measly wimp like this dud could have possibly pulled off that much damage.”

 

Spike felt the challenging glare from the young punk. He pulled out a cigarette and lit it. The sound of his lighter clapping shut dashed the group into silence. Fixing the mouthy Chains with a half-lidded stare he leaned on the pool cue. _Not old enough to have a rep, yet. Bet he dubbed himself Chains. Loser._ The smoke twisted in tendrils between them adding to the haze in the dive.

 

All eyes locked on the pair. Not a peep among the men. No one even lifted a drink.

 

Chains stared at Spike, flexing his hands. “Listen, pal, these idiots say you are some kinda legend.” He spat on the floor. “I say you're nothing but a faker tryin' to steal some trumped up glory.” He snarled, smacking his fist into a palm.

 

Stunned whispers carried through the room.

 

Spike raised the pool cue and held it out to his side horizontal above the table. His expression oozed boredom as he released it, dropping it neatly onto the tabletop. He did nothing more. _Great, here it comes._

 

Chains grunted. “I'm gonna snap you in half like a twig!”

 

As the heavyweight thug closed the gap, Spike stepped under his sloppy guard. In a swift motion, his shoulder came up under Chain's armpit. Spike grabbed his wrist and upper arm and in a violent twist flung the man into a catastrophic cartwheel that didn't end well thanks to gravity. Chains landed on his hip with the extra force Spike applied at the last minute, whipping him in a ricochet.

 

The only sound in the room was Chain's, moaning.

 

_Click._

 

Alarmed, Chains stared up into the barrel of Spike's Jericho. All the thug could manage was a raspy gasp as Spike kept a firm finger on the trigger.

 

Spike's voice bore an icy tone, his eyes still half-lidded, but a glint sent a shiver down everyone's spine close enough to see it. “On the top floor of the Red Dragon's tower this gun ended a long feud between my ex-partner and I. Don't give me a reason to use it on your sorry ass.”

 

Slowly, color drained from his face as he locked eyes with Spike.

 

_Fresh meat. Why do they always hafta ask for this shit? Bad enough some of these idiots want to put me on a pedestal, worse when they want a shot at a title that doesn't exist. Well, just in case anyone else has any ideas, let's put a stop to this._ Placing a foot in the center of Chains's chest, Spike gave him a shove as he holstered his gun. Everyone edged backward.

 

Kev came forward, his knitted wool hat in his hands. “It's true, we aren't much to work with. But everyone in here wants to be part of something bigger. We've been trying, in small groups, to get a better hold. But it's not working. We need someone who's experienced. We need someone like you, Spike, to run the game. To organize us.” He fell silent, waiting for a reply.

 

He turned to the pool table and snatched up the cue, lining up another shot as his thoughts roved over memories, the march of time spent working under Mao Yenrai. Even if his mentor never fully explained his motivations, Spike still grasped the concepts over his time serving as his enforcer, after all, Mao had been grooming him to take over as capo. Sinking a few of the balls he pondered the situation here and the resources Kev relayed before. None exposed a connection to the ISSP, yet. He doubted any of this lot would know if they'd actually crossed paths with a plainclothes agent. That took time and instinct to be able to gauge, something many didn't live long enough to gain. Well, so much for this being short and sweet.

 

He cleared the table and gulped down the last of the whiskey. “At the moment you are nothing more than a room full of clueless lackeys.”

 

A room that erupted into angry grumbles.

 

Spike glared them into silence. “You want to be a syndicate? Prove to me that you are worth my time.”

 

Chains stood up with a grunt and folded his arms, respect in his gaze. “What do we have to do, Spike?”

 

* * * * *

 

Faye stared down at Spike. As usual he was on the couch passed out on his back. She hadn't seen him much these past few days, and couldn't believe that the ship was still on this frozen moon of testosterone. Callisto. Nothing but frigid temps and cranky ass men.

 

She leaned over Spike and whispered. He didn't even twitch. Just continued to breathe steadily, each breath laced with stale alcohol. Aha, he'd been drinking. Her eyebrow raised as she devised a plan. Grabbing a playing card from the table she balanced it on his forehead. After a minute passed and he hadn't moved, she picked up a poker chip and placed it on edge in the center of the card. She gave it a flick and the chip danced in a tight circle.

 

She giggled into her hand. He was still out cold. Unable to resist the urge, Faye picked it up and spun it again.

 

“Leave him alone, Faye.” Jet leaned over the railing from above.

 

Faye looked up and planted her hands on her hips. “Why should he get to lounge around here doing nothing?”

 

“He's trying to get some sleep.”

 

“He's always sleeping.” She picked up the chip and gave it another spin.

 

“I mean it, Faye. He was pretty beat when he came in last night. I had to wake him up twice as he stumbled through a short report to Bob.”

 

“Bob?” She sat up. “Your friend Bob? Why is Spike reporting to Bob?”

 

Jet rubbed his forehead. “It's a long story. But you need to lay off the antics and let him work.”

 

“Work schmirk, I'll believe he has a job when I see it.”

 

The chip spun down. Faye gave a sly smile and was about to grab it. Spike's hand flew up and latched onto her wrist. In a single move he was up, his other hand catching the falling chip in mid-air. Faye gasped as he threw her back against the table. His blazing eyes bored into her.

 

“Do you know what happens when someone fails at their job?” Spike practically snarled in her face. “Well, do you?”

 

She shook her head, wedged back against the table. Something cold pressed against her stomach. She glanced down and her blood ran cold. The muzzle of Spike's Jericho rammed against her bare skin. His finger twitched against the trigger. Her mouth flapped, no words came.

 

“Spike!” Jet yelled, his steps carried down the stairwell.

 

With a shake of his head, Spike pulled the gun away. “Don't you forget that, you worthless bitch!” He swept out of the room and vanished down the hall to their quarters.

 

Faye immediately leapt to her feet and pursued with Jet not far behind. They found his door shut and locked. Jet placed a hand on Faye's shoulder, a somber light in his eyes. “Faye, lay off him. He's … I don't know what to say. But I suspect that what he's doing is stirring up some bad memories.”

 

“What's he doing? Jet, this is serious. I've never seen him like that.” She paused, her hand drifting to her mouth. No, that's not right, she had. “Wait … in the church. When he faced Vicious. Both of them had that same gleam in their eye. Primal. Almost animal.” Faye narrowed her eyes. “What _is_ he doing?”

 

Jet rubbed his synthetic arm, his eyes downcast. “Remember when I went off after that prison ship with Fad, my old partner from the ISSP? Well … it was a shock to find out that he was responsible for shooting my arm all those years ago. I almost lost my mind. Took me a while to get over it.” He cast his worried glance at the locked door. “Spike doesn't talk much, but what he's told me of the past doesn't speak well of his experiences. Nor did he like who he had been.” He shut his eyes and swallowed. “Bob asked him to flush out a Red Eye dealer.”

 

She shook her head slowly. “No wonder he's turned into a low-life jerk. He's insufferable to begin with, but that Red Eye stuff is the root of madness. Are you sure he's not using it?”

 

“Yeah.” Jet sighed. “That shit doesn't work on synthetic eyes. So it screws up Spike's vision if he does. He told me about the one time he tried it and regretted it. Seriously Faye, leave Spike alone. Let him handle this. I feel bad enough about letting Bob force the issue on him in the first place. By the time I noticed the signs Spike was hiding, you know, how much this idea bothered him, it was too late. You know Spike, he's not gonna just drop this.” Jet moved off, rubbing his neck. “And it's all my fault.”

 

Faye quietly approached the door and pressed her ear against the metal.

 

_Plink. Plink. Plink._

 

An odd cadence carried through. She leaned her forehead against the door. “Spike. I'm really sorry. I didn't mean upset you. It was just a silly joke, nothing more. Please open up.” She paused and listened, the sound continued. “Please, Spike?”

 

When he didn't answer, she rolled on her shoulder, her back against his door. She slid down to the floor and bit her lip.

 

* * * * *

 

“Please, Spike?” The muffled voice broke through his door. But Spike barely registered it.

 

Seated on the edge of his bed he leaned forward, staring sightlessly into the dark. The poker chip flipped in an endless rotation ticked by his thumb into the air again and again.

 

_Plink. Plink. Plink._

 

With each topple of the chip he disconnected a thread of himself burying the life he had cautiously built up over the years. Each flip rolled him back closer and closer to the man he'd been before.

 

Bound by honor to serve the syndicate. Stone cold. A ruthless murderer.

 

Spike Spiegel, Red Dragon Enforcer.

 

 


	4. Session 4

_**Session four:** _

The early afternoon sky barely looked brighter than the night over the chilled landscape. Jet glanced up from his seat on the bridge. His phone flashed, a call coming through. He heaved a sigh, grabbed it and opened the channel. Bob's worried face filled the screen. Behind him the walls of a frost covered alley were smudged in black streaks. _“Hey, uhh, Jet, you haven't heard from your partner, have you?”_

 

Scratching his head, Jet shrugged. “No. Didn't see him this morning. He left early. Typical since he told me he didn't want anyone seeing him hanging around the ship. Why?”

 

A bead of sweat dripped from under Bob's scruffy brown hair. _“He's not answering his phone.”_

 

Jet rubbed his chin. “If he's in the middle of something I doubt he could pick up and chat without blowing his cover. I'm sure he's fine. Spike-o knows how to handle himself.”

 

“ _That's not it.”_ Something about the tone of Bob's voice tightened Jet's throat. _“I_ _ **need**_ _to talk to him._ _ **Now.**_ _”_

 

“What's wrong?” He edged forward leaning into the handheld device.

 

Keeping his voice low, Bob glanced over his shoulder. _“An armored van heist occurred this morning.”_

 

Jet waved a hand. “So?”

 

“ _The doors were blasted open by C-4. A signature grade that originates on Mars.”_

 

The pressure in his chest rose even as he repeated. “So?”

 

Bob locked eyes with him through the channel. _“The same damn lot used to level the tower on Tharsis. Only the cops here haven't seen the reports I have to realize that. Jet—what the_ _ **hell**_ _is your partner pulling?”_

 

“It can't be!” Jet pounded a fist on the console. He practically threw himself down the stairs and vaulted over a rather startled Ein at the bottom. The deck plate buckled under the impact of his boots. “Bob, sure he keeps a stock on the ship, but I know I saw it all here, just last night!” As he turned the corner, Faye looked up and yelped as she darted out of the way. She became a shadow in his path.

 

He tore the door of the fridge open. His jaw fell. “No.” He shoved the scant cans of food and drink around, groping for what should have been here. “The grenades. The C-4 … they're … it's all gone!”

 

Faye's rushed footsteps echoed down the corridor away from him.

 

“ _Jet. I seriously have to know. How much C-4 is missing? A little? A lot? Does he have more than what he used here?”_

 

Rubbing the back of his neck he raised a shoulder. “Several pounds. Spike usually prepped some basic cuts ahead of time. Had the igniters all set up in a bag in his room, in case things got dicey on a job.” He turned on his heel, prepared to dart for Spike's room. He stopped.

 

There in the door stood Faye. A haunted expression on her face as she stared at a device in her hands. Jet forced his eyes down. The dented case of Spike's much abused phone. “Bob … I think I know why he isn't responding.”

 

Faye held out the phone. “Why did he leave this behind? Jet … you don't think … ”

 

He lowered his head and breathed through his nose. “Shit. There's only reason he would.” He lifted his own phone and stared at Bob.

 

“ _I can't hold the inevitable off for long. Someone else is going to make the connection. Nobody here knows what I'm up to, I can't tip my hand. You have to find Spike before they do. We're talking serious charges here. Damage to a government vehicle, assault on the drivers who are still in unconscious, grand theft of millions of woolongs. I don't think you want to even consider what his bounty would be.”_

 

Half-heartedly, he shook his head. “You don't know for sure he did this.”

 

“ _Jet, be serious.”_ Bob's image shifted on the screen as he turned the phone. A twisted blackened wreck of an armored van lay in the alley. A rare patch of ground visible where the heat of the explosion had flash melted the snow. Spike had employed his explosives expertise a few times before when there was no time for finesse in a bounty hunt. The distinct peal of the metal doors told the whole tale. 

 

He squeezed his eyes tight, the facts socking him in the gut. “Ugh … kid, what the hell are you thinking?”

 

Faye's hand clasped his shoulder. She abandoned her usual sarcasm, instead her voice trembled. “Jet, we better find out.”

 

* * * * *

 

Puffs of breath hung in the warehouse air. Chains stood watch, peering through a crack in the grime frosted window. Observed by the rest of the crew, Spike and Kev counted out stack after stack of non-sequential woolongs on a table in the center of the room lit by a single flickering bulb. As they reached a certain amount they would nod and Tony, one of the men Spike assumed had been in the trade before, placed it in a briefcase. There were already ten of these set up and many more to go.

 

Shutting one of the cases they had been filling, Tony pulled out a cloth from his suit pocket and wiped his brow. “Damn, I have never seen this much cash in one grab before.”

 

Spike paused, fingers holding the edge of a bill as he glanced up. “You want to buy the goods, you have to have the cash. Welcome to the big leagues. This kinda grunt work is common on Mars.”

 

Tony set the filled case aside with the others and loosened his tie. He shared a quick glance with Kev. “We were just trying to move what little Red Eye we could get our hands on out here.”

 

“Mm hrm.” Spike pushed another stack his way to start the next case. “Which explains why you haven't gotten anywhere yet. Seed money has to come from somewhere. Or else you steal your first stock. If you start out as a middleman, you'll never get out of the hole. Especially here.”

 

Adding a stack, Kev leaned back and glanced at the bags left to count. “Hey, how much do you think we have here?”

 

“In Red Eye?” Doing a quick tally, Spike mused over a going rate. “We're looking at 25,000 to 30,000 a gram going rate, right?”

 

“That's the local street value, yah.”

 

Spike ran a hand through his hair. “Roughly forty grams per million woolongs.”

 

Smiles spread like a contagion as the crew looked around at the filled cases and started to realize the full take. “Holy—we're gonna need a bigger warehouse!”

 

Returning to counting the cash, Spike remarked, “Don't get ahead of yourself. We'll purchase some outright. But the reason the Red Dragons cornered the market was they owned the chemists who made the shit. You wanna go big? We need labs and flask-masters on the payroll.”

 

Kev set the stack he was working on down. “Wait a minute. Are you saying what I think you are?”

 

He abandoned the woolongs on the table and leaned back, propping his feet up as he lit a cigarette. “You told me you wanted to become a legit syndicate. Now, we can just be a link in the chain if you want, stay a pitiful little gang. Or, you guys can grow some balls and throw your lot in with the big boys. Make your choice now. Cause I know I can dig up plenty of grunts ready and willing to do whatever it takes.”

 

“There are flask-masters out there. But Spike, they belong to other groups, gangs, syndicates. We'd never get them.”

 

“Persuasion.” The poker chip rolled back and forth across his knuckles as he offered a half-lidded stare. “Every man has a price. Either in woolongs or the value of his life. Which brings us to rule number one of life in a syndicate. Failure means death.”

 

A round of swallows filled the silence. Spike marked a few men who didn't quail at his words. These men knew and understood. The rest would need to learn fast.

 

“Death?” Kev took a step back.

 

“A syndicate lives and dies by its weakest link.” The chip vanished. He brought his gun out. “That's the role of an enforcer. To eliminate all threats. External,” he tapped the muzzle against the back of his hand, “and internal.”

 

Several of the inexperienced men exchanged worried gazes. The more hardened crew only offered Spike expressions of admiration.

 

He stood up and fixed each would-be member with a stern glare. “Before you can't back out any longer, anyone got second thoughts? Soon the only way out won't involve breathing. So what's it going to be? Are we gonna do this?”

 


	5. Session 5

_**Session five:** _

_Plink. Plink. Plink._

 

Seated on a pile of crates stacked in the old warehouse, Spike flicked the poker chip and stared out toward the waning daylight, faint through the filthy window. Two days huddled in his parka against the drafts in this barely heated building soured his already bad mood. He craved a warm bed and a decent meal. His breath crystallized in the air. Shit, cigarettes didn't even like to remain lit. He burrowed into the collar of his parka, most of all he wanted off this frozen turd of a moon.

 

The chip ceased its endless cycle. His hand reached for his pocket, and found it empty. He silently cursed himself for even thinking of it. Of course his pocket was empty. He'd abandoned the damn phone right after loading the last of his supplies in the  _Swordfish_ . His ship now well concealed nearby and untrackable.

 

_Plink. Plink. Plink._ He forced his hand back into the mindless activity. Anything but to dwell on this biting cold.

 

As the sun went down, the men started to filter back in at regular intervals. Most bent over the space heaters, rubbing their hands together before offering a grunted greeting. A few eyed the crates where the briefcases of cash were concealed.

 

A conversation echoed from a corner. “Why are we staying here? Why not rent a hotel room, or buy a frickin' building?”

 

“Don't be a moron. You think the cops aren't watching for something like that? You wanna get pinched before we get started?”

 

There was no reply. But out of the corner of his eye Spike caught the speaker glancing at the crates beneath him. The moment the man spied Spike, he became more interested in his boots.

 

_Plink. Plink. Plink._

 

A couple cases of Red Eye sat on the table. Two of the deals had been successful. Granted, only one reported without bloodshed. But it was impossible to make an omelette without cracking a few eggs. The watcher opened the door, a draft gusted through the ramshackle building. Spike ducked down deeper into the parka trying to dwell on places like the deserts of Earth, or even the baked surface of Io—even if mushrooms were the only damn thing to eat there.

 

A commotion broke out. “Ooowwwooo! Dond dutch ib!”

 

“Al! What the hell?”

 

Spike peered out between the gap of his parka's collar as the men gathered close. The front of Al's jacket was stained with blood. He held his head back, cupping his nose with a hand. Blood seeped between his fingers. “He hib be.”

 

Kev stormed across the room, his hands wide. “Where is the case? You should have a case. Either our cash or the juice! Where the hell is it?”

 

Wincing, Al tried to shake his head. Tears welled in his eyes. Without even seeing it, Spike could hear in his voice his nose had been busted. “I'b dorry. He dook id. Dhugs thmathed be.”

 

“You mean he's got our cash **and** kept our delivery?” Kev shook a fist in his face as Al cringed away from him. “You idiot! How could you let Vitaly do this to you! Shit. Now what are we going to do?”

 

Al babbled incoherently, his head still back to stem the flow of blood.

 

The poker chip skidded across the floor and landed between Kev and Al. They watched it spiral down, chittering as it settled on the metal floor, crown side up. Pensively, all eyes turned to Spike.

 

He stood atop the crates, hands in his pockets. Every step he took echoed in the silence. No one moved as he bent down and picked up the chip, continuing past them all toward the door.

 

“Uhh … Boss?” Kev took one step, but stopped the moment Spike peered back over his shoulder. “Where you going?”

 

“To complete an order.”

 

Chains moved to the door in front of Spike and inclined his chin. The thug received a nod and the two walked out into the growing dusk. They had hardly cleared the icy yard before Kev and Al's hurried footsteps followed in their wake.

 

“Vitaly will be—”

 

“I know where he is,” Spike muttered. “Guys like him practically have instruction manuals. And just like any machine, you just have to kick it hard enough to reboot it.”

 

* * * * *

 

The rented pool hall once more played host to a disreputable sort. Vitaly leaned against the table surrounded by three of his henchmen, they had the place to themselves. Inside the warm hall, he had discarded his heavy jacket and let his finely cut three-piece suit show. Beneath a dark gray fedora his brown hair feathered back neatly. He lifted a toast to his crew and gulped down the glass of vodka.

 

“Well done, gentlemen.” His thick Russian accent distorted the words. “That little rat will never try to cut his teeth on our supply lines again.”

 

The door opened, snow swirled. With a cigarette burning between his lips, Spike strode in. His hands in his pockets. A dead glare in his eyes. Chains, Kev, and finally Al flanked him.

 

The Russians turned and laughed as they spied Al's swollen and bruised face. A henchmen in a black suit pounded a bruised fist into a meaty palm. “Haha! Look who's back for more tenderizing.”

 

The bruiser's knuckles did not escape Spike's initial assessment. Passing by a pool table, he didn't break stride as he picked up a pool cue, the back end aimed toward the targets. Without so much as a word, Spike burst forward for the final steps, swinging the cue around into a violent arc across the chest of the first goon. The wood shaft shattered, leaving behind spears of splintered wood in the man's flesh. The sharp end of the thick cue completed the arc. Before the other goon could react to his buddy getting slashed, Spike brought the splintered tip straight up into the bridge of the bruiser's nose.

 

Al's assailant opened his mouth in an airless scream as he staggered backward and crumpled into the fetal position. Blood gushed out from between his fingers.

 

Two of them down, the final henchmen reached for his gun.

 

Spike spun and drove the cue to within a hairsbreadth of Vitaly's face. The leader leaned back, slack-jawed even as his last goon froze. A drop of blood trembled at the end of the splinters before plopping onto Vitaly's chest.

 

Steely eyed, Spike did not move as he addressed the henchmen. “Draw the gun slowly and drop it.”

 

Silence stretched out before Vitaly cried out, “Do as he says, Dmitry!”

 

Dmitry obeyed, sweat poured down his face. The gun clattered as he released it. A vial of Red Eye fell out of his pocket and shattered on the floor. He cursed. “Boss … what do you—”

 

Spike shot him a glare, still holding the blood-soaked stake close enough to scratch Vitaly if he breathed wrong. “You **will** go and fetch my order and the payment you stole.”

 

The man hesitated, eyeing the other two holding their bleeding wounds. Vitaly swallowed, not so much as daring to blink at the steady hand that held him captive. “Tch … do it!”

 

Spike narrowed his eyes. “Chains, go with him. Dmitry, you got three minutes to get back here with both cases. Anything funny and you will need to find a new boss.” The color drained from Dmitry's face.

 

Another drop of blood stained Vitaly's starched white shirt. With haste Dmitry darted out the door, Chains in tow.

 

Kev and Al moved to block the door, keeping a watch in both directions. Eye to eye, Vitaly and Spike watched one another. Breath by breath they waited in grim silence. No other muscles moved. The only sounds were the choking sobs of the bruiser trying unsuccessfully to stem the blood flow.

 

The clock ticked. Five seconds shy of the three-minute mark, Kev opened the door. A breathless Dmitry carried in the cases followed by Chains, cracking his knuckles.

 

“Well?” Spike kept the death lock on Vitaly.

 

“S'all there, Spike. The full load of juice and every last woolong.”

 

“Right. Chains, Al, take it and go.”

 

Al cocked his head as he picked up one of the cases. “Whader you gobba do?”

 

“Take out the trash.” Spike let a slight smile play on his lips. At the end of the shattered cue, Vitaly held his breath. The door squealed open and shut. Kev stepped closer, cutting off any attempt Dmitry might try. Spike kept his voice level. “Vitaly. You want to walk away from this? One last deal with you. I want your flask-master.”

 

His lip curled. “Spike is it? So, you're the little flea trying to carve out a place on this dog hide. You can go screw yourself. Only a fool gives up his meal ticket out here.”

 

The tip drew back a touch, poised to strike. “Corpses don't need meal tickets.”

 

A sly smile of confidence spread on Vitaly's face. “If you kill me, I can't tell you shit.”

 

Kev stiffened, he caught the slight flick of Spike's eyes to Dmitry a split second before the henchman held out his hands. “Ganymede! You're looking for a lab in the capital city. It's run by Sugar.”

 

The triumph transferred like lightning from Vitaly to Spike. “You have one loyal son there, Vitaly.” In a smooth motion Spike rose. He looked as if to leave a second before he turned and slammed the cue into the flesh of Vitaly's calf.

 

Vitaly shrieked and gripped the bleeding limb as his son swooped in and ripped the tie from his neck for a tourniquet.

 

“That'll keep you two occupied for a while.” Spike casually turned and walked out of the door into the swirling snow. Red footprints faded to pink and vanished altogether as the growing storm swallowed them.

 

Kev dashed after him, slowing as he came to his side. “How did you know?”

 

“Family traits. They flinched the same. No mere henchmen would betray that much concern for their boss's life unless there were a family tie.” Spike ducked into his parka, snowflakes piled up. He grunted. “I hear Ganymede is nice this time of year.”

 


	6. Session 6

_**Session six:** _

_This is not good. Not good at all._ Bob stood in the ISSP's bull pen on Callisto surrounded by officers of all grades. He puffed on a cigarette trying to quell his nerves. Other than those out on patrol, everyone available had been called in to this meeting. Since he was more or less 'on loan' here, as a cover for the mission, that put him front and center in line for trash duty. And word had it the shit had hit the fan over the last four days—starting with the armored van. He sought the cover of the bill of his hat more than once as he idly studied his phone. Right now he wanted to throttle Jet for the inane suggestion of using his partner for this. Bob couldn't even begin imagining anything short of a hypergate explosion eclipsing the mess this had created.

 

_Please. Let it be a terrorist attack. Or some crazy government project broken loose that we have to hunt down. Anything but a connection to Spike._ He glanced at his phone again and his shoulders fell.  _Who am I kidding? That's all anyone has been talking about. I am so screwed._

 

Chief Petrov stormed out of his office, his scowl looked as though he had just drank sour milk in his coffee. His usually tidy appearance now disheveled, to the point of his tie knot letting his collar hang off-kilter. Adjusting his glasses onto the bridge of his nose he held up a file and glared at the assembly. “Typically the biting cold keeps trouble to a minimum around here. Four days ago that changed.” He slammed the file on the desk. “Someone is stirring up shit in my city and I want it to stop, now.”

 

Officers leaned on the edges of desks offering their undivided attention. Bob did his best to offer a bland mask of a beat cop inconvenienced by the meeting. All he could do was act  _normal_ . His case depended on it. And yet, it occurred to him, anyone in this room might be his corrupt cop. Carefully he let his eyes rove the room, watching each of the officers for any sign out of the ordinary. So far every man seemed equally impatient to be doing something else. Which in this precinct amounted to pretty much nothing. 

 

“Four days ago an armored van was taken out. The two drivers have regained consciousness, but regretfully due to concussions, have amnesia covering the events of the day. We have almost nothing on this. The vehicle was hijacked enroute, taken to a vacant section of the city in the north, and cracked wide open with C-4. That alone would have been enough.” He opened the file and spread out several reports.

 

From his angle, Bob could barely see the photos. The color red stuck out on one in particular.

 

“Over the last two days numerous reports have come in concerning men loitering in the abandoned projects areas. Officers have followed the tracks, only to lose it in the slushy mess of the more traveled streets. At this same time there have been three significant incidents. One break-in where a known drug mule was found dead, shot twice. No drugs or money were found. His wallet had been taken. Down near the shipping ports there was a loud disturbance in one of the storage sheds. When a guard went to investigate he found blood spattered on the wall, but no signs of who had been there. Blood tested to type AB. Last night a passer-by reported that the pool hall on Century street was left in disarray.” He held up the photos. The dark hall appeared to have housed a brawl. From the table that had been shoved backward, a bloody trail smeared across the floor out the door. A shattered pool cue lay on the floor stained dark red. A fedora lay askew on the table. “No reports as to who had been inside at the time. Analysis showed only the presence of type A blood. The hair samples from the hat are still at the lab.”

 

“Sir,” officer Alexeev stepped forward. “Are we certain these are connected?”

 

“No. But that is precisely what I want looked into. Everyone here is on these cases now. It appears as if some schmuck is organizing. I want these perps found and subdued. Yesterday! I suspect we're looking at a smuggling ring.”

 

Detective Orlov snorted and folded his arms. “Smuggling? What could they be smuggling out here? Coffee?”

 

The chief scowled and snatched a close up photo. Glass shattered on the floor in a puddle of blood.

 

No … not blood. Bob's throat tightened. There was blood nearby in the same photo and it pooled thicker. This fluid was less viscous. And there, on the edge of the photo was the metal tip of the aerosolizer.

 

“Red Eye. Where there is Red Eye there are jacked-up psychos.” Chief Petrov shook a fist. “The proof is in the incidents. They may be connected, which means we have one group. Or possibly more, smaller cells. I don't care what it takes. Get out there and find them.”

 

Hushed groans filled the air, murmuring about venturing out in the cold.

 

Bob edged closer to the photos, letting the images sink in. He skimmed the reports. So far nothing firmly identified Spike. No bullet casings, aside from at the known mule's case. Bob heaved a sigh of relief. Wrong caliber for a Jericho. But still … he picked up the photo of the pool hall and rubbed his chin. It was difficult to deduce what happened here, but the vibe came to him all the more.

 

Orlov came up and slurped his coffee. He picked up the photo of the Red Eye vial and stared close at it, shaking his head. “So this crap is really worth killing for?”

 

Bob shrugged and handed the photo to the curious Alexeev. “Guess so.”

 

Orlov cracked a wry grin holding up his cup. “Heh, no thanks. If I was gonna smuggle anything here it would be some the best damn black there is! Well, better bundle up, rent-a-cop. It's cold out there.”

 

* * * * *

 

Snow drifted down, vanishing in the dark blanket building on the deck of the ship. Jet huddled in his jacket watching the puff of each breath as he warmed his hands. Behind him, the hatch of the _Bebop_ hung slightly open. The crunch of footsteps in the snow caught his attention.

 

Bob didn't look up as he shuffled toward Jet.

 

The snow swirled under the whine of a mid-sized cargo ship's engines pushing it up over the city. The thrust turned the precipitation into tiny ballistic missiles forcing them to brace against the gale. The ship leveled out, pitched a bit in a gust, then slowly caught its barring off Callisto.

 

Jet grit his teeth behind the guard of his arm. Ships rose into the air periodically from the various warehouse districts nearby. Bags under his eyes grew daily from the sporadic disruption of sleep as well as the worry. He lowered his arm and waved Bob inside.

 

In silence, both men entered the hatch. It creaked and shut with a thud. Grimly, Bob shed his thick jacket. “You would have told me if you found something. So I guess that means you haven't.”

 

Taking off his own jacket, Jet shook his head and led the way to the bridge. His shoulders sagged as their footsteps clanked up the stairs. “The _Swordfish_ 's tracker is offline. Yes, he knows how to disconnect it. Without his phone out there I have no signal to latch onto.”

 

“Your hacker?”

 

He glanced over in the corner on the bridge where Ed slumped in an uncomfortable position in front of her computer, sound asleep. The goggles were cocked over Ein's closed eyes. The dog lying on his back snoring. “Ed's been searching for something. Anything.”

 

“And?”

 

Jet heaved a sigh, flung his jacket over the pilot's seat and took out a cigarette. “Nada. He's a resourceful guy … and that is what worries me most. If Spike doesn't wanna be found it'll be like finding a grain of salt in a blizzard.”

 

Bob leaned against the console. “There's something you gotta see, Jet. And you're not going to like it.”

 

Without further prompting, Jet brought up the ISSP's data base and entered the access code. “What am I looking for?”

 

Bob leaned over and typed in the file numbers. Window after window opened with the investigations. Each one darkened Jet's expression. The pool hall devastated him.

 

His hand pumped into a fist. “He wouldn't … this can't be … not alone.”

 

“Then you got the same feeling I did. Spike's got company.”

 

Jet scrolled through the data on the files and leaned back with relief. “If he was at any of these he didn't bleed there. None of those are his blood type.”

 

Bob cocked his head. “You know his blood type?”

 

He smirked and buried his face in a hand. “Do you have any idea how many transfusions his reckless ass has needed? Yeah, I know. I could do the procedure in my sleep. Shit … what the hell is he doing?”

 

“I was hoping you would have some clue.” Bob lit a cigarette and took a long slow pull from it. “But it looks like you are just as lost as I am. The chief has caught wind and called out a netted investigation into the events. We need to get to him first.”

 

“If I knew what the hell he was doing … ”

 

“ … other than going on a psychotic trip into thug-ville?”

 

Jet sunk further and groaned. “I would've sworn he didn't have it in him anymore … not Spike. Not after how thoroughly the syndicate screwed him. How could he turn like this? I really thought I was getting to know the guy. I guess I was wrong.”

 

* * * * *

 

The cargo ship shuddered as the winter gust hit the broadside. Chains held it level, gritting his teeth at the controls.

 

Kev snapped at him, “I thought you knew how to fly this damn thing!”

 

“Hang on, the engines are catching up.” Chain's groused, “Where did you find this old bird?”

 

Kev held onto the back of a chair. “We were in a hurry. I did the best I could given that I had to use a shipping yard that didn't know my real name. They don't like to rent to _young punks_. I had to conceal my mohawk, took me forever to re-gel this damn thing.”

 

“At least they bought your alias.” Spike gripped the edge of a control panel, flicking a few switches for the engines. The fuel flow sputtered and caught. The increased thrust leveled the flight. “We'll have to use the name again on Ganymede.”

 

“I'll give you props, you really know your shit. An ocean like Ganymede scares the crap out of me. I would've stuck with Callisto for a bit longer. But of course, being syndicate, you're more used to the hotter markets. Where did you hang after the Red Dragons broke up? Must've been someplace pretty discrete. You dropped off the map.”

 

Something caught Spike's eyes. In the darkened swirl of snow he glimpsed the _Bebop_ , two figures crouched on her decks. For a moment he watched her fading outline as their rented ship rose into the air.

 

“Boss?”

 

He snapped out of it and pretended to check a list on the ship's shoddy computer hitting the screen when it flickered black. They would be lucky to reach Ganymede on this hulk loaded down with fifteen crew members (counting Spike), the cash, a couple vehicles at their disposal, a generous stash of weapons, the Red Eye, … and of course Spike's supply-laden _Swordfish._ “We'll need some real property. A warehouse for when we nail our flask-master, and a place for us to operate from.”

 

Kev grinned, drumming his fingers. “A place with heating?”

 

“It's summer on Ganymede. Won't need much of that there now. But yes, we're through living in an ice box.”

 

As they broke out from the terraforming's atmo, Chains set the autopilot and leaned on the back of his chair. “Yo Spike, got a question for you. You said that in a syndicate failure means death, right?”

 

He nodded.

 

“Well, Al kinda initially screwed up that deal, didn't he?”

 

Spike cracked a half grin. “Which provided us with the lead on our flask-master. That was part of the plan, anyway. He also followed us and helped clean up the mess. So, what is the real question?”

 

Chains blinked and after a long pause, his eyebrow raised. “What's your body count?”

 

Leaning back in the co-pilot chair, Spike cradled the back of his head with his hands and propped his feet up on the console. “By accident or on purpose?”

 

Kev and Chains leaned forward.

 

“By fists, improvised weapons, explosives, vehicle, gun shot, or … ” he shrugged, “shot glass?”

 

“Poison?”

 

Spike grinned devilishly. “Concussion.”

 

In unison they whispered, “Damn.”

 

“Target practice, boys. It was all in a days work for an enforcer.”

 

* * * * *

 

The cargo ship cut a wake through the terraforming atmo. Bright neon signs, gathered like a flock of disorganized gulls, hawked everything in the galaxy. As much of the gang as possible crammed onto the bridge, their eyes taking in the wide oceans of Ganymede. The capital's shoreline emerged from a blur on the horizon. Even through the ship's climate-proof windows Spike felt the impression of the temperate seas sparkling below. A vast improvement from the desolate ice-locked moon they'd left behind.

 

Chains leaned forward to get a better look. “This place is huge! So many buildings. The entire population of Callisto would fit in just this city!”

 

Still seated in the pilot's chair, Spike smiled over the flicking poker chip. “Welcome to the land opportunity, boys. Now the real fun begins.”

 


	7. Session 7

_**Session seven:** _

The bridge of the _Bebop_ lay shrouded in silence. The panel lights sent out a faint glow hardly touching the darkness. Outside, snow piled up gradually encasing the ship in an icy cocoon.

 

Faye picked at the edge of a cracked nail. Her lip curled at the spider-webbing in the red polish. Not to mention this cold climate wreaked havoc on her skin. That too flaked and cracked despite all attempts to battle the conditions.

 

Sprawled on the floor, Ed stared at her computer with Ein in her lap. She'd had the goggles on for hours, her eyes threatening to close in the monotony of the search. From time to time she'd mutter half a lyric then lapse back into silence. Ein lifted his head and yawned before settling his chin back in his paws.

 

Jet sat at the navigation table, the files and news reports spread out before him. On the other side, Bob leaned on his elbows nursing a cup of coffee and a cold. Both men's gazes had long since glazed over. A drip of water from one of the coats hung up to dry echoed as it struck the floor.

 

Bob sneezed, the papers fluttered with the gust. Jet slammed his hand down, trapping the pages in place and startling everyone. Wiping his nose with a tissue, Bob murmured an apology.

 

“Ugh, don't say another word about it. I think we're all sick of this.” Jet sighed.

 

Bob scratched his head. “I don't understand. Four days of crazed activity. And then … we're at a week now without a single case. Not a sign of anything … unusual here. Are you sure there's nothing else?”

 

“I've hit every possible dive,” Faye fanned out her nails checking the rest of them, “and several rude men in the process. There's nothing going down out there. This satellite is as dead as Spike will be when I get my hands on him.”

 

For a moment Jet's face tightened into a glare, but it quickly slackened. He rested his forehead against his palm. “Faye's right. Between the two of us, we've prodded every corner and turned up nothing. It's like a wild goose chase, without the goose.”

 

“Maybe that's what we need to do.” Faye smirked. “Advertise a feast. You know what Spike's like when food is involved.”

 

“He's not the only one.” Jet rumbled, eyeing her between his fingers.

 

Heat rose to her cheeks. “Really? We're going to get into that now? I was being serious!”

 

“So was I.” His hand tightened into fist. “Over the years he spent on my ship the fridge didn't wind up empty until you crashed here. And then, every time I turned around you were running off with our cash like a teenager on a bender!”

 

“Oh? Like the lunkhead was perfect!” She shot back with a flick of her head so hard it practically dislodged her headband. “How many times did he botch a bounty hunt? Or cause more damage than the bounty paid?”

 

Jet slammed his hands on the table and exploded up. “He was there, Faye! One way or another, when the job came up Spike was there in the middle of the shit-storm playing the odds. No matter how bad they got, I could count on him to be there.”

 

“Where is the slime ball now?” Faye folded her arms. “So much for your little brotherhood. Face it, you're just hurt because you don't want to admit how right I was. I'd read that jerk the moment I laid eyes on him. Nothing but a lowlife thug. I told you so.”

 

Jet ground his teeth until they squealed.

 

Tears trembled in the corners of Faye's eyes as she yelled, “You can no more remove the criminal impulse from him than I can stop gambling!” She turned away from them all, clutching her arms tight to her. Her teardrops hit the floor with a plunk.

 

Hanging his head, Jet stood there with the tension ebbing from his frame until he sagged on the edge of the table. _This is tearing us apart._ Numbed by the shock, he murmured, “This … this isn't about you, Faye … ”

 

“Nnnnyyyaaa?” Ed folded in two over her bare feet and pulled the goggles back. Her eyes narrowed. Beside her, Ein perked up and cocked his head. Instantly he started to pant, his butt wriggling just as Ed shouted, “Fishy!”

 

“Wha … ?” Jet half-turned.

 

Pointing at the computer screen, Ed beamed. “Red fish! Red Fish! It's the _Swordfish_!”

 

In a mad scramble everyone crowded around the screen. Ein hopped in Ed's lap yapping loudly until Faye clamped a hand around his muzzle. There, on the screen, Jet recognized a waterfront district. Cranes reached out over the loading docks. Freighters in processing, cargo stacked in various degrees of disarray. He searched the image only to find nothing out of the ordinary.

 

“Ed, this is on Ganymede. We—”

 

“Just wait.” Her toe clicked a button and the loop of surveillance video played. Two seconds into the slow drift of water current, a flash of red light glinted on the left edge of the screen. It traveled fast, cutting low through a swath of buildings. Just before reaching the right edge, the blur widened into two distinct wings. The silhouette was beyond dispute.

 

Jet grabbed the computer screen. “What the hell? No wonder we couldn't find him!”

 

Faye gasped, “How did he get to Ganymede?”

 

“Don't know,” dashing to the pilot console he fired it up, doing a system's check, “don't care. But we're going, now.”

 

Bob sniffled and wiped his nose. “I have no clue how I'll explain this to headquarters, but uhh … can you give me a lift to Ganymede?”

 

“You got a half hour to grab your stuff.” After Bob departed, Jet huffed a sigh. “Damn, no wonder we weren't finding him. I knew we couldn't be that blind.”

 

* * * * *

 

The hideout door flew off the hinges. Inside the backroom, Iggy and his client poked their heads out to glimpse the commotion. Through the dust up it was hard to tell what was what, save that there were more men out there than they had left to keep watch over the Red Eye deal. The sounds of fists into flesh filled the air. Iggy watched in terror as his bodyguard wailed out in pain accompanied by the crunch of hand bones.

 

In a flash it was over. The two men trembled, now cornered in the backroom. Out of the dust a tall, lean man emerged dressed in a dark blue double-breasted suit holding a gun by its muzzle, apparently ripped out of someone's grasp. Iggy's heartbeat raced as he recognized the weapon. It belonged to his bodyguard who was now on the floor crumpled over his disjointed hand.

 

The stranger walked straight up to Iggy, ejected the clip, and dropped the gun. Through a mop of fuzzy hair he fixed him with a unnerving stare. Far too cordially he offered a hand. “Yo, we're new to the neighborhood. Thought we'd drop by.”

 

Iggy tried to get his mouth working, it flapped a great deal before he managed to get out, “Who?”

 

“Spike Spiegel.” He grinned and picked up a vial of the Red Eye. The gauge rated it orange, just below the red range. “Not premium, but I'll take it.”

 

“Uhh.” Iggy gestured hurriedly toward his client. “I'm sorry … but this batch is taken.”

 

However, the client's teeth chattered uncontrollably. His complexion drained white as a sheet. He went down onto his knees and shook his head. “Sp … Spi … Spiegel? No … no … no!”

 

Calmly, Spike peered through the vial at the dealer. “You have a choice. Work for me, or … ” in a swift motion he dropped the vial and crushed it beneath his boot, “ … be eliminated. It's as simple as that.”

 

Iggy cringed and nearly dove after the vial. “Do you have any idea how much that is worth, you psycho? Red Eye is hard to come by these days without a syndicate to—” The client's hand on his shoulder stemmed the flow of words.

 

Wide-eyed, the client pointed. “Dra … dra … dragon!”

 

“Dragon?” Right after he said it, Iggy jerked backward.

 

Spike offered his most mischievous smile. “The fastest way for a syndicate to grow is by cutting out competition. And you see, your little operation is in my way. So, I'll give you a minute to think over your options.” The Jericho appeared, winking in the dim light beneath Spike's folded hands. His finger rested right outside the trigger guard.

 

Iggy swallowed. In a rush he pushed the cases forward. “Here. It's yours. Take it. Take it all.”

 

With a dark chuckle, Spike put the gun away. “Smart choice.” He turned and left. In his wake, his men seized the cases.

 

A man with a mohawk grabbed Iggy by the arm. “Alright boys, let's get a move on. We got two more to hit today.” He turned to the dealer and grinned. “And you, we're gonna put you to work right away. After all, what good is the juice if it's not flowing?”

 

* * * * *

 

Gathered on the bridge of the _Bebop_ the crew scanned the city scape as the ship plunged down into the sea. Ed punched through sequences on her computer. From the pilot seat, Jet worked the controls edging toward the docks to tie up. “Anything?”

 

Ed scratched her head. “Lots of bad bad things. Too many lots. Hrm.”

 

Bob heaved a sigh and leaned on his elbows. “There's more crime on Ganymede. Finding the pattern among the static is going to be difficult.”

 

Approaching the windows, Faye gazed out over the buildings. “The one thing we know for certain is that he's here, somewhere. The real search begins.”

 

* * * * *

 

Spike held up a vial of Red Eye to the lamplight in the office of their small warehouse. It wasn't much, but the location was out of the way. Just enough traffic to hide their activity, but not so much as to be noticed. The valuable Red Eye sparkled in the light. A single case of it worth a fortune. But only this one case. Premium Red Eye. The high grade stuff.

 

“Where did you come from?” he murmured to himself. “One guess would be Sugar. And so the question still remains, where are you hiding?”

 

The door opened, Kev slid in and shut the door. “You wanted to see me?”

 

He set the vial back into the case and shut it. “We're outgrowing our current location. And we've yet to locate this Sugar.”

 

Kev shook his head. “We pounded the guy, but he ain't talking. By now with what we've done if he knew he would have said something.”

 

“There are other ways.” Spike pulled the poker chip out of his pocket. “Everybody has been working real hard lately. You boys feelin' lucky?”

 


	8. Session 8

_**Session eight:** _

The well-dressed crowd bustled about the orbiting casino to the music of many vices. The rattle of the craps tables, the rhythmic thump of the slot machines, the card ruffle of poker and black jack decks. Everything lit up with flashing lights. Faye adjusted the shawl over her dress, a nice trim number in purple that flaunted her figure.

 

She pulled her phone out of her clutch to check. Not a word. Ramming it back in, she fixed a stray hair. _Well, several days of hard searching hasn't turned up a thing. Time to take some personal time. And I need it! Now, where are my ponies?_

 

She wandered through the throng reading the signs offering all kinds of chances for her to bet her stolen time. She hadn't told Jet where she was taking the _Redtail_. Nor had she mentioned her intentions. There was no need to lie. Since they had arrived on Ganymede Jet had been in two places, either out gathering information in the local pubs, or hovering over Ed's shoulder looking at a blurry image that might or might not be important. More often than not it had proven the latter. Funds weren't the greatest at the moment, so perhaps if she won a bit it would lighten their spirits. Yes, that was it. That's why she came here. To be a good crew member.

 

She smiled and waved a flirtatious hand at a handsome man in white suit. He adjusted his tie and winked at her. She was about to cross the room to do a little digging when the cuff of his jacket lifted revealing a knock-off watch. Instantly she dropped the act and veered off. _No good poser! Where do men get off thinking that a smooth move will reel in a real woman. I'm not a fish. I need something with substance, not just something shiny._

 

Taking out her compact, she checked her make-up and grinned at herself. In a second the grin faded, she did a double take. Had she really seen it? No … it had to be her imagination. A crowd around the craps table made it hard to see. A big burly guy in a suit moved into her way. She closed up the mirror and turned around to the clatter of the dice across the table.

 

Hands shot in the air. “It looks like we have a high roller, here! Your dice, sir.”

 

The crowd parted a bit. She spotted it. Would know it anywhere. That damn unkempt mop of green fuzz. The moment he turned she caught his profile, his cheeks flush with the bloom of alcohol. A glass of amber liquid sat on the edge of the table by his hand. Spike? What the hell was he doing here … with a mountain of chips on the table! _Oh God! He actually pulled the armored van heist!_

 

She almost reached for her phone when a slinky, sequin clad table girl draped across Spike's shoulder. To Faye's shock, he didn't pull away as she caressed him, batting her fawning eyes. Sneaking closer, Faye hid behind an overgrown fern permitting her to watch and listen.

 

Spike chuckled easily, clearly drunk by the note in his voice. “Oh hey, look at those peepers you got. I think I just got a bit lost in there.”

 

The girl shifted her hands downward. “A man like you must have deep pockets.”

 

He blushed and shifted. “Uhhh, whoa, it's gonna take a bit more than that to get into them, Glitterbomb.”

 

Unrelenting, she closed the gap between them and reached around, embracing his waist. “I've got some nice moves, if you want to try them out.”

 

“Hands off the heat, honey.” He shifted back a bit, not even the slightest bit nervous. “Not sure I remembered to turn on the safety.”

 

She turned away and threw him a pout. “I just wanted to know if you were fully loaded.”

 

Faye bit her lip to keep from darting out of her hiding place.

 

“Come on, don't look at me like that. I knew what you were after. And by the way, it's empty.” He turned back to the table and picked up the dice, preparing to throw.

 

The woman's eyes jerked wide. She reached into her dress and pulled out a wallet. Her jaw slackened … empty.

 

Before tossing the dice, Spike flashed her a quick grin. “Wrong pocket, sweetie. I'm not that easy.”

 

She vanished into the crowd. Behind the plant, Faye turned around. _He's blitzed out of his mind and shooting craps? And he had the gall to lecture_ _ **me**_ _about betting? Seriously, the nerve of this guy! Spike and Jet constantly had wagers. Hypocrite!_

 

The crowd split apart. The sequined woman stood beside a man in a finely tailored striped suit, a diamond tack secured his silk tie, rings on his fingers winked in the light; a real money-bags. She pointed toward the craps table. The man narrowed his eyes and a sly smile grew on his face. Tugging his vest tight, he strolled right toward the table.

 

_Huh? What's this about?_

 

Spike nearly fell onto the table as he waited for the dealer to prompt for the throw. At his elbow, Mr. Money-bags watched as in a swift flick of the wrist the entire game landed in Spike's favor. Before he could even lower his arms from the celebration, the man closed in.

 

“Well now, what astonishing luck. Tell me, are you a gambling man?”

 

Spike teetered on his feet and blinked at the sharp-dressed man. He flashed a smile. “Aww shit, I thought I was bein' discrete. Besides being in a casino, what gave that away?”

 

The man broke into laughter and signaled the dealer for a break. He offered Spike a hand. “I like your style, kid. The name's Hans Kruger. How long you been shooting?”

 

“Spike Spiegel.” He grasped the hand and shook it. “Annnd you could say I've been around a while. Came here to do a little laundry.”

 

Hans straightened, his expression gaining a stern edge. “Spike Spiegel? As in the lateYenrai's security man?”

 

“You know more than one Spike?”

 

“Heh, well now. I have the honor of treating such a valuable … asset.” He waved a hand over his shoulder and a blond in a tight confetti colored dress came to his side, coyly watching.

 

Faye's throat tightened. She knew this move.  _Spike, get out of there. They've marked you!_

 

“I would always be honored to be associated with any Yenrai's trusted his life with. Perhaps we can work out a business arrangement?” Hans took the blond's hand and eased her over toward Spike. She instantly melted up next to him.

 

Spike's eyes drifted down right about where the cut of her dress covered her breasts. He stared like a dog offered a piece of steak. “Ooooo, I think I like your perks.”

 

Hans winked. “Feel free to sample them. The name of this delicacy is Candy.”

 

_No way. Spike would **never** … _

 

Candy pressed forward and locked lips with him. Spike's eyes closed as he wavered. A moment later, his arms embraced her and he dipped her, letting her full weight rest in his embrace. His free hand traveled down the length of her ending up cupping her bare thigh through the side slit of her dress.

 

Faye's nails tore a frond loose from the fern and shredded it.  _Why that son of two-bit one-eyed trouser snake! How could he do that! What about Julia? He wouldn't even look at me thanks to Julia. This tight assed little bitch waddles up and suddenly he becomes the galaxy's most eligible lecherous bachelor? ARGGH!_

 

When he released her, he grinned and traced the neckline of her gown. “I could get used to this. What are you up to tonight, Toots?”

 

She cradled his jaw and simpered. “Whatever you'd like.” She draped herself across his shoulder like a stole.

 

He did nothing to stop her. In fact he seemed captivated by her vapid beauty.

 

_Floozy!_

 

“Spike,” Hans had a hard time catching his attention. At last, the leering lunkhead glanced up. “What are you involved in now?”

 

His arm still around Candy, he swayed a bit. “Acquisitions mostly.”

 

“Acquiring old business?”

 

He nodded. “Guys gotta stick with what he knows. But uhh, I've been a bit too successful. In the market for a bit more real estate.”

 

Hans perked up. “Oh really. I would imagine such a stock would have an expiration date. Wouldn't want it to spoil before you can find a proper street cart.”

 

Toying with the fringe on Candy's dress, Spike chuckled. “More of an issue of appearances, street carts aren't big enough. Umm, maybe something with a bit more class? Something with a view?”

 

“Do you have the venture capital?”

 

He winked and pointed at the chips on the table.

 

“You know, I think I have the perfect place. Good location. Ample space for staff. Even has a fully furnished penthouse.” Hans gestured to the dealer. “Please have my friend's chips packed up and cashed in. Deliver the funds to my personal lounge.”

 

“Right away, Mr. Kruger.” The dealer bowed.

 

“This way.” Hans held out a hand, Spike and Candy came along beside him. The girl absolutely draped on him like a second skin. Fuming, Faye followed at a distance well behind a small crowd of men dressed in suits, one with bright red hair falling down one side of his head. He looked like a rooster.

 

They entered a hallway where the casino security stood watch, baring any chance Faye had of getting closer. She pulled out her phone and dialed. “Hey Jet, don't ask questions. But I'm at the casino … I said don't ask. … Will you just shut up and listen! I found Spike. And if you want him before I rip his ass to shreds you might want to get here.”

 

* * * * *

 

Jet tugged on his tie for something to occupy his hands. He hadn't had time to press the suit before putting it on. It didn't seem right to walk into the casino in his typical attire. And yet now, five minutes into his rendezvous with Faye he wished he had kept his overalls on, at least he'd have a roll of tape for her flapping mouth. He felt sorry for the casino security officer she'd been verbally assaulting when he found her. Like that was difficult—right out of the docking door, follow the banshee scream.

 

“How can you possibly have lost an entire damn ship? How does that happen? This is serious business. I wanna know where this guy is and I want to know now!” She slammed her hand against the wall.

 

The officer heaved a sigh and repeated the same reply Jet had heard moments ago. “Sorry. But our VIP client's privacy is protected information.”

 

Faye bristled, her teeth squealed she ground them so hard. “Privacy? Well that low-life, frisky palmed, bra-burrowing, son of s—”

 

Jet clamped a hand over her mouth, she struggled against his grip. “Sorry, Sir. She uhh, she gets a little attached to things. OWWW!” He drew his hand back, shaking it and wishing he'd used his synthetic hand instead. “You bit me!”

 

“Possessive? I'm not possessive! I'm gonna ream that sea rat's scrotum sack! Outta my way!” She shoved Jet aside and tried once more to get into the secure hallway.

 

The security guard didn't budge an inch as she attempted to pry him out of the door. “Listen lady, one more time and you're gonna be removed from the casino ship.”

 

Faye pulled her arm back for a punch. Jet caught it and dragged her away, muttering over his breath, “Of all the idiotic tactics. Faye, knock it off.” He paused in a windowed lounge area and locked eyes with her. “I'm not even going to ask why you were here.”

 

“The real question is why Spike was!” She pointed out to an empty dock port. “There was a huge private transport there. That was the hall they went into. They didn't come back out. All I wanted was the logs so we could track the ship.”

 

Jet shook his head, her eyes were trembling with fury, and something else. “Are you sure it was him?”

 

She tugged out her phone and showed him an image. “Tell me that isn't lunkhead!”

 

He bent closer and nearly choked. “Are those … how much is that?”

 

“Wouldn't you say a good chunk out of an armored van's worth?” She smirked. “And that's not even the worst of it! You should have seen him with that floozy.”

 

“Floozy?” Jet removed his hat and rubbed his head.

 

“Yeah, Jet. Floozy! Tight little dress over a tight little ass that left nothing to the imagination. He had his hands all over her like she was a slot machine waiting to payout!”

 

He cracked half a grin. “Hahaha, you never hung out with him enough. He tried those moves all the time. Got his ass kicked constantly for it too.”

 

“Not this time.” She folded her arms and leaned into him. “This time she didn't deck him like the chauvinistic pig deserved.”

 

“Alright, alright. Calm down.” Placing his hat back on his head he rubbed his beard. “So we know he's been here playing the tables now. That's something to go on. Now how much of the staff have you pissed off?”

 

Suddenly her bravado drained, she blushed and bit her lip.

 

“Ughhh, Faye, you green-eyed monster! How do you expect we'll get anyone to tell us anything now?”

 

Sheepishly, she smiled. “Well … maybe the casino owner is a babe and likes guys in suits?”

 

Jet groaned.

 


	9. Session 9

_**Session nine:** _

The morning sun's rays cut through the billowing curtains casting a warm glow into the penthouse. This was one swanky high rise, complete with private security. Ten floors of private condos near the bay. Every one of them fully furnished with gleaming precious metal and wood furniture so polished that it reflected everything. This included stocked wet bars with everything from micro-brews to whiskey in vintages dating from Earth's boon years. The entire joint, plus two warehouses, transferred to Spike's hands on Kruger's ship on the way back to Ganymede yesterday. Not in his name, of course. Kruger's clientele rarely owned anything directly. His was a full service business, complete with establishing shills. That's precisely why Spike had targeted him.

 

To celebrate their new success, the crew had gone out and feasted in a nearby restaurant gorging on fine cuisine. Well, fine so far as the likes of Callisto had known. Anything that had been caught fresh and never frozen was a delicacy to them.

 

The fact was, they were now one step closer to their syndicate dream. Since arriving on Ganymede their numbers had tripled. They had the seed money, the dealers, the base stock—all of that _acquired_ , of course. After a blitzkrieg campaign they had choked off all the prime competition in the trade. The bulk of what was currently available for market was now in one of their warehouses, and word was traveling fast there was a new kingpin in the trade. All that remained now was establishing a supply line. As of yet, no amount of _persuasion_ produced a solution there. With the dealers either in his fold or buried, that last detail was bound to resolve soon.

 

Spike couldn't care less at the moment. Lying on his over-stuffed stomach, his arms spread wide across the large bed. His face sunk into the plushy pillow with a blissful smile. Beneath the layers of blankets he slept on sheets made from some weird Venus caterpillar silk. Who gave a shit where it came from, he'd never felt any fabric smooth as butter in his whole life. Before lying down, he'd stripped down to his boxers just to let more of his skin take in the luxury. Hours ago his suit had finished in the in-suite laundry, but he hadn't bothered leaving the cocoon of covers.

 

Shit, this was the life. All this time he'd been missing out. Beat the heck out of napping on a lousy squeaky yellow couch in a thumping old tub that reeked of putrid fish.

 

The whole con had been easy, especially once he'd gotten Kruger's girl to notice him. That's what had taken the longest, luring the scout-fly with his drunken nectar. From that point on, his previous reputation as Mao's enforcer did the rest, just as he'd gambled on. Turned out quite a few Red Dragons had laid low after the Tharsis coup. Information remained spotty at best. So no one seemed to question where Spike had been in the passage of time. Rumor had it that his blazing gun tirade had been an attack on the tower to protect the Van out of a sense of loyalty. Eh, it worked. Same as taking out his old sleazy partner. Both had similar impact, rendering him a big damn hero. That was all he needed.

 

Kruger's words echoed in his memory, _Of course, from time to time I have a few clients who need a reminder about paying their dues. Would I be able to call on you for a collection?_ Superficially drunk, Spike missed the hand he was supposed to be shaking. The stumble into Kruger's shoulder for balance was the perfect cover to retrieve the phone-siphon bug he'd planted on the dock before boarding the private vessel.

 

In his half-sleep, Spike's smile intensified. A hacker he'd picked up for arranging coded deals jumped at the chance to break that baby wide open and make her talk. Just a matter of time. No doubt that somewhere on Kruger's list there would be at least one flask-master. Those were odds Spike gleefully accepted. He'd nearly blown his cover more than once over the hours in the direct con. One the final step had been concluded, Spike would have a full blown syndicate up and running.

 

The best part of it all, Kruger knew who Spike had been to Mao and yet still didn't cover his ass all because he thought he'd had the advantage. _Heh heh, sucker!_

 

A knock at the door roused him. He cracked open an eye. “Mmmph?”

 

Another series of knocks followed.

 

Groggily, Spike climbed out of the luxurious bed dragging his gun from beneath the pillow. Bare feet slapped the tiles floor as he crossed the room. The breeze from the open window pricked out goosebumps on his exposed skin. Just as he opened the door he remembered he was only in his boxers. Too late now. He stood there as if this were perfectly normal.

 

Kev, complete with mohawk, opened his mouth. His eyes shifted down and widened, then darted back up and he tried once more to speak. His voice edged a tad higher than usual, “Uhhh boss, sorry to disturb you … but uh … well … I have important news.”

 

“What?” Spike grunted, he leaned his gun hand against the door frame.

 

“The hacker got a location.” He eyed the gun, a bead of sweat dripped. “Down near the waterfront. Sure bet it's Sugar.”

 

Instantly, Spike straightened up. Without a word he dashed off to the machine to fetch his clothes.

 

Kev leaned in and cocked his head. “You want company?”

 

“The usual!” Spike hopped across the floor, only one leg in his pants. “After all, we want to make a solid first impression.”

 


	10. Session 10

_**Session ten:** _

Rung Pharmaceutical Industries almost didn't exist. If Spike had blinked he might have walked right past the door tucked between two buildings in the manufacturing segment of town. A machinist's shop hugged one side, and a glass manufacturer on the other. The only hint the deep set door went elsewhere was a small sign with the name. Noises carried through from the shops on either side. No one wandered by.

 

_Perfect neighborhood for a covert operation._

 

Spike lit a cigarette. After putting his lighter away, he waved a hand for the guys to stay outside. Opening the door, he strode in with one hand in his pocket, the other gripping a briefcase. No one manned the barred off service window. The joint reminded him of a bank behind bullet proof glass. Around the waiting room, posters of grinning children holding flowers lined the moisture stained brick walls. In the poster corners they advertised medications. He bent down, ignoring the name, and instead read through the ultra-fine print listing the side-effects pondering who would even risk some of these. _What the heck is hypertrichosis?_

 

Foot steps caught his attention. He turned to the window to find a woman with frizzy brown hair wearing a lab coat. Her hand rested on her hip as she observed her visitor. “Alright suit, you're not with the government. So, I'll give you two seconds to tell me what you want.”

 

He straightened and cocked a little grin. “What's this stuff treat? With all the flowers I'd guess allergies?”

 

“Cute.” She folded her arms changing the angle of a name tag. Dr. Dex T. Ross. “How long did it take you to come up with that?”

 

“Probably longer than it took you to come up with your alias …,” his smile broadened, “Sugar.”

 

She drummed her fingers. “Who's been talking?”

 

“An associate of mine found your lab for me. Don't worry, I'm not here to shut you down.”

 

“You and your posse outside?” Sugar laughed. “Good. Cause you're standing in the middle of a real bad place if you were. I suggest not taking a step until I tell you otherwise, _capisce_?”

 

Spike's eyes didn't even search the room. He just nodded. This was nothing but a reassurance that he was standing in the presence of someone who knew how to protect their ass.

 

Leaning forward, Sugar rubbed her chin. “Hang on, you're the one behind the rumors, ain't yah. Gotta be. Word's gotten around about a group playing in the shadows and putting a serious crimp on the market.”

 

He shook his head. “Not a crimp. Just a monopoly. I take it you and I are talking the same spectrum here.”

 

She made a rude noise. “Don't make me laugh. Ya basic, bro.”

 

Spike cocked his head. “What does that even mean?”

 

Ignoring him, she snapped her fingers. “I've seen a number of your kind come and go. All's I know is that when I started the current batch, I had a secure buyer. Now, thanks to you, I don't. That's not a real happy position for something that takes two-months to make, no matter how much it can rake in.”

 

Spike lifted a shoulder. “I can level with you there. Fact is, what I got isn't going to hold out long. So, you could say I am an interested party.”

 

“How interested?” She glared down her nose.

 

Opening the case, Spike turned it around to show her the stacks of woolongs. “ **That** interested.”

 

Her hand stabbed a button, the door to her left buzzed open. Spike carried the open case through and held it out to her. Her eyes jumped over the contents, lips counting in silence. “For how much?”

 

“Down payment on the first batch, provided it's premium. Regular contract to follow.”

 

Not looking up she snatched the cigarette from his mouth and ground it into the counter. “No flames. There's a lot of volatile fumes back here.” The door shut and an electro-mag lock engaged. “And yes, the Red Eye I brew here is the highest grade in the system. Come see for yourself.”

 

He followed her through the front rooms where equipment turned glassware full of boiling liquids. Only a couple of staff members worked diligently at the desks. They didn't even glance up as she passed by with Spike in tow. She stopped at a blank wall and flashed an ID. Instantly the gap appeared as the wall slid back out of the way. An automatic light clicked on in the antiseptic chamber. Through a series of tubes, red fluid boiled gently pushed up and around curves in pulses.

 

Sugar took him past it to a rack. She pulled out one of dozens of trays. All of them full of scores of tubes. “Go ahead. I know the routine. You wanna test the goods. This is my QT stock. One vial from every batch originating from here. If you can find a single vial that doesn't score a full red on the gauge, I'll give you a discount.”

 

“Pretty ballsy.” Pulling out the meter, Spike selected one at random. It maxed out the gauge. He took another, near the top. Two more shivered just below the top. “Red Eye is notoriously difficult to brew. How did you manage to get such stable results?”

 

“Intuition.” Sugar flashed a grin. “My dumb-ass brother may have all but given the recipe to the Red Dragons. But it wasn't him who created, nor perfected it. That credit goes to me, not Keith.”

 

Spike glanced back toward where the others were working on the lab's front practice. “Lemme guess, Keith's in hot water working under you now?”

 

“Nuh uh. The dope is in deep cold water back on Mars. Happened years ago when some psychopath blew up the entire dock warehouse he was squatting in. Served his ass right, the lowlife thief.”

 

A vision popped in Spike's head. A mess of a man peering over a work desk with shattered glassware. Vicious's initial supply of this drug. The C-4 Spike had planted going into the warehouse to cover his 'death'. Keith … oh, _that_ Keith. Oops. Well, he hadn't suffered—for long.

 

“In the long run,” Sugar continued, “I'm better off. After that ridiculous fiasco, I took the formula and left that rats nest. Ganymede is a much nicer place. And out here I was always welcome to take the highest bidder.”

 

“Well then, that takes us to the next part of this.” Spike put the gauge in his pocket and locked eyes with her. “I do expect exclusive distribution from your lab.”

 

She flashed him a stern stare. “Then you better remain the highest bidder. So far, you got a real solid lead, Mr. Shadow.”

 

After finishing the details, she escorted Spike to the locked door and waved him out. The first thing he did after emerging outside among Kev, Chains, and Al was pull out a cigarette and light it.

 

Al blinked, “Where's the case?”

 

Exhaling slowly, Spike tucked the lighter away. “Where it belongs.”

 

Kev jerked upright. “You mean we got … ”

 

He nodded.

 

“Then … we're really a … a real … really real … ”

 

Spike chuckled and screwed up his mohawk. “Yes. We're a legit outfit now. Don't choke on it. Take the rest of the day off, guys. Tomorrow starts the restructuring.” He had started to walk off when Kev grabbed his wrist.

 

“Restructure? What are you talking about?”

 

Keeping his voice low, Spike muttered, “We're getting too big to run it like a gang. Time to specialize and spread out the crew. Some to deal and run the jobs. Some to protect. Some to handle the covert accounting. There is more to this than just slipping shots under the cops noses.”

 

Al swallowed. “Pro-protect … you talking enforcers?”

 

The poker chip appeared and flipped into the air. He snatched it with a fierce grin. “Every empire has the danger of invaders. And I didn't set this shit up to get taken out. We need to secure our supply lines.”

 

Kev smoothed his mohawk back in place. “If anyone knows enforcer material, that's you, man.” He grabbed the other two by the shoulders and steered them down the road. “Come on, there's a bar I saw on the way here I wanna check out.”

 

On his own, Spike watched them wander off. The weight of his hidden gun reassured him that there were no worries. With a cigarette hanging out of his mouth he wandered through the streets of the city away from the waterfront. Closer to the central district, by a park his stomach complained loud enough to be heard over the traffic.

 

“Alright, alright. I hear ya.” His eye caught a street vendor, the scent of cooking meat filled the air. “Hrm, been ages since I had a cheeseburger.” Wandering over, he leaned against the cart as he waited for his order. The cook at the grill didn't look up much as he tended the food. All good as far as Spike was concerned. He enjoyed the park's ambiance as he gazed at Jupiter's immense expanse half-blocking the sky in a swirl of oranges and reds. He'd never really stopped to observe how alluring the twists of colors were.

 

Lost in the sight, the cook gave him a slight startle. “Order up.”

 

“Thanks.” Spike took the double-decker cheeseburger and found a seat by the fountain. The park was largely deserted, business hours and too early for the lunch rush. He enjoyed the solitude as he leaned back on his elbows savoring a simple meal.

 

A shout disrupted the quiet. A scrawny man in a purple hoodie practically tripped over his own feet as he dashed out of the bushes at the side of the fountain. Trying to recover off of his knees, he was seized around the neck by a burly man in a button down shirt and a tie. Spike leaned forward a touch and caught the gleam of a V shaped scar below the second man's left eye.

 

“Listen, you little scumbag,” the scarred man spat out, “you've really screwed up now!”

 

“Gah! No!” the hood shrieked, “I didn't, I swear! I'm just a … ”

 

Giving the man a good shake, packets of powder tumbled onto the pavement. A sheepish smile spread on his face a moment before a fist knocked him to the ground. “I've had my eye on you.” The scarred man pulled out a pair of cuffs.

 

_A cop._ Spike trying to look unremarkable, focused his attention on his meal, watching out of the corner of his eye.  _Great. Well, even if he were to search me, s'not like he'd find a damn thing._ Licking off his fingers, Spike stood up and strode past the cop throwing the unconscious perp over his shoulder with a grunt. With his hands on his pockets, Spike vanished into an alley. Karma smiled, for now. But he knew better. 

 

Karma was a fickle bitch who loved to tank the odds the moment a man got comfortable. Spike flinched in the shadow of the buildings, his mind dwelling on the penthouse.  _Crap. Snap out of it, buddy! Keep your edge._

 


	11. Session 11

_**Session eleven:** _

Bob pushed up from his computer in the closet-like office. He swore he could smell cleaning chemicals every time he entered here. Of course the top brass assured him it wasn't an old mop closet, but he'd be damned if he didn't see the outlines of the shelves that used to line the walls. His head ached from looking through the files. Far too many, as usual. Well, it was Ganymede, after all. A population this large supported quite a bit of mischief. Unable to see the constellation pattern in the galaxy's worth of reports, he needed a coffee break.

 

In the bleak break room, no less of a converted room than his shared office, he grabbed the coffee pot and poured a mug. Strong was an understatement. If he'd placed a spoon in it, the dang thing would have stayed upright. The one thing he could count on, after this cup he wouldn't sleep for about ten hours. And right now he didn't dare get caught napping. Not after the unscheduled return. He was in the doghouse, even with internal affairs.

 

Everything had been dicey since he'd returned. And the reports looked even more ominous. The Red Eye market changed in the course of a week. Well known mules and dealers, gangs handling the stuff … vanished. Or their bodies were found in less than peak condition. The market went dark as though someone turned a computer screen off. Click. Other markets remained hot as ever. But Red Eye became scarce. Through it all he kept a quiet tab on the lots in evidence. Only two cases had gone missing since he'd returned, and those early on.

 

Taking his coffee, Bob crossed the room to the small window. His uniform chaffed. Even more so as he watched the plainclothes detectives chatting out of the corner of his eye. _Just a lowly cop._ He sighed. _All I'll ever be. Doesn't matter what they promised me. That promotion isn't coming. Especially now. I don't have a chance of getting out of this mess._

 

Behind him the sound of coffee sloshing into a cup caught his attention. He turned to see detective Jackson setting the pot down. He crossed the room, his smug grin creasing the V shaped scar beneath his left eye. “Aww, if it ain't Beat Cop Bob.”

 

He didn't even deign that with a reply.

 

“Ya know,” Jackson placed a meaty paw on his shoulder. “If you ever wanna get out of grunt work you really gotta get out of your office once in a while. Do the things a beat cop's supposed to do? Things like ohhh, I dunno, like bringing in perps.” He held up four fingers. “My contribution this week alone. What have you done?”

 

Bob fought the urge to shirk out from under the hold. Instead he kept the disinterested stare forward. Jackson had one of the best records in the office for take downs. This was not a lecture he cared to be victim of.

 

“Oh, that's right.” Jackson slapped him on the back. “You're the resident desk jockey! Hoping to get employee's comp for paper cuts? That's a real challenge from computer files. But keep your dreams alive.” Guffawing, he left the break room.

 

Once he was alone, Bob slammed his mug down on the table and brought out his phone. He dialed Jet. “Hey, anything else since the casino sighting?”

 

“ _Eh, nothing confirmed. A few incidents fit the pattern from the files you showed me. But we're no closer to narrowing down a hideout.”_

 

He hung his head. “I'll keep secretly passing on the files I find. Anything that might connect the dots and lead to finding out what's going on. But I don't like the fact that the market has died. What is happening, Jet? You know him more than I do. What's the angle?”

 

“ _Well … Uhh … I suppose … honestly? This isn't like anything I've seen him pull. This is off my radar, Bob.”_

 

“Great,” he muttered. “You wanna get this back on the radar please, pal? Before this nukes my career?”

 

Jet gave a wry laugh. _“I'd kinda like to get my hands on the ass so I can kick it to the other side of the galaxy!”_

 

Bob hung up and took another sip of the strong coffee. “Shit.” He sighed and turned back toward his office.

 

* * * * *

 

Spike grabbed a bottle at random from the penthouse's private stock. Wandering out onto the rooftop he sat on the concrete edge and leaned against a huge potted tree. Uncapping the bottle he took a swig of the strong scotch and coughed as it burned his throat, more than he had anticipated. Glancing at the date he amended his assessment. The contents were older than he was. He blinked for a moment. Hell, older than Faye.

 

Laying his head back he ran a hand through his hair. The events of the past days trampling like a run of the bulls. The crew had surrounded him with cold, hungry eyes staring at him as he decided their fates. Who would be an enforcer. Who would take point on deals in what quadrants in their territory. Who would stand as partial executives below him. Muscle, mule, money counter … it all became real over the pin pointings on a map.

 

Spike Spiegel … Syndicate Boss.

 

His insides churned as though he hadn't eaten in days, yet he'd only just come from dinner with his newly minted executives. The poker chip found its way into his hand. Idly he flicked it and let the chip land on the concrete. It spun, tickering down. Bare side up.

 

The tension melted from his frame. Spike took a long drink from the scotch, letting it burn all the way down. He gasped in the evening air, his eyes taking in the jagged horizon. How vast this city was. So unlike Mars with the crater terraforming. Everything he saw from here, all of it and just beyond, was his territory.

 

But it wasn't enough. His fingers clawed the grip on his knee.

 

“I get it now, Vicious.” He picked up the chip without looking, letting his fingers toy with it. “I understand what I failed to grasp all those years ago. Sitting here now on top of it all, I finally get what drove you to the lengths you went to. The insatiable hunger. One taste of the power and it doesn't let up, does it.”

 

His fist closed around the chip. “Here I sit at the top and it's not enough. I've used my skills to hunt down every last possible competition in the field and set it up so there's no way but through me to get this shit. A full out drug-ring monopoly. And it's not enough. I've reclaimed what the Red Dragons lost … and I want more! And I swear the hunger is so deep I would cut down anyone to do it.”

 

Leaning his head all the way back against the planter, he shut his eyes and half smiled. “If I'd grasped that hunger in you maybe I … well … maybe we wouldn't have been blade to muzzle. I get it now, partner. Even if I didn't back then. I get it now and it genuinely hurts.”

 

Spike raised the bottle and stared into the swirling liquid. “You once told me if we stood together nothing could stop our ascension. I admit, I blew the chance to see that one through. That one is all on me, now pal. Sorry I blew your heart out. But hey, I still owed ya, right?”

 

His wry laugh died in his throat. “I was right about one thing. It's lonely at the top. But then again … when have I ever not been lonely? So I guess that hasn't really changed after all. We both kinda suck at making friends. But we're experts at betrayal. You took that to your grave. Looks like I will too.”

 

Taking another gulp he let the bottle rest. “Heh, here's to us and lost chances, Vicious. Your reign was short as a Callisto summer. May mine be significantly longer.”

 

The sky faded into darkness. Speckles of starlight shimmered in the sky. Tethered to the penthouse, Spike heaved a heavy sigh. _Point of no return, pard._

 


	12. Session 12

**_Session twelve:_ **

Jet set his empty pint glass on the bar. Staring into the bottom of it, he sighed. The bartender didn't even ask, he just grabbed it and refilled it, sliding the drink back into Jet's slack grip. In the early evening the dive bar had quite a crowd. A good place for a guy to drown his sorrows.

 

The chatter around the smoke-hazed room created the perfect atmosphere so he didn't hear his thoughts circling the drain. How much longer could he dwell on this? Another damn week had passed without a lead. How long until he swallowed the grim truth? Downing half the beer he lit a cigarette and stared idly at the twisting smoke refusing to answer the hypothetical questions.

 

A drunkard leaned forward and smacked his shoulder. “Hey bub, what's the sour for? Your kitten left ya or something?”

 

Jet growled.

 

“Well,” the drunk lifted his hand and snorted, “with a face like that I can see why … heh heh.”

 

_None of his business._ Jet's glance carried beyond the withdrawing inebriate to a man in a corner booth. He squinted. The action was swift, hard to catch in the dim light. But he swore he saw a flash of red passed across the table. A moment later, a man in a purple hoodie walked out.

 

Abandoning is beer, Jet wandered over toward the booth. The remaining man typed a message into his phone and sent it before tucking the device back in his suit jacket. A smug grin on his face, he glanced up at Jet and blinked.

 

Jet leaned on the table. “Hey, I'm lookin' for some tomato juice.”

 

The man's eyebrows shot up. “Bartender here don't serve no Bloody Mary's. Heh. Not no more.”

 

“Yeah. What's a guy gotta do to get some?”

 

He held out a hand toward the bench. “Take a seat, Iggy's got a few. What grade you want?”

 

Jet grinned. Seated at the table, he pulled out his gun and pressed it against Iggy's kneecap. 

 

The dealer glanced under the table. His eyes widened. “What the—”

 

“Quiet. Act normal or you'll never walk again. You ever see what a point blank shot does?” He flexed his synthetic arm, even though it had been a sniper shot that took the original out. This schmuck didn't know that detail. And by the fear flaring in his eyes, Jet knew the tactic had the desired effect. 

 

Iggy swallowed audibly and folded his hands in front of him. Beads of sweat poured down his face.

 

“Here's the deal. I'm looking for someone. Word I hear is that he's your boss. You help me get in touch with Spike, I let you keep breathing. Understand?”

 

“Sp-Spike? You wanna talk to him?” He held his hands up. “I can't … I don't know where he is.”

 

Pressing the gun closer to the joint, Jet's smile grew grimmer. “Not the answer I want to here.”

 

“Hold on!” Iggy's voice went up an octave. “I meant to say, I don't know where he is **now**. But … but … umm … I got an appointment with him. In a couple hours, see … I got a cash drop and need to pick up more juice. So … umm … ah!”

 

Jet ruffled his hair. “Good. You can take me along with you.”  _Finally! About time._ “I'll be waiting right over there. You try to slip out, I'll hunt you down and use you for target practice. Got it, buddy?”

 

Very enthusiastically Iggy nodded. To Jet's surprise the dealer remained in the booth, alone for the next two hours. As he got up to leave, he waited for Jet to join him. Through a series of alleys Iggy took them to the south side of the port and stopped short of a small warehouse. 

 

“In there. That's where I meet him. But if you're with me, he'll be pissed. Please. Just … just wait for me to leave before you show yourself.” His eyes twitched to the rippling water of the bay. “I've seen what happens when someone screws the pooch.”

 

Folding his arms, Jet glared down at him. “Explain.”

 

Iggy shuddered. “The guy's an ex-enforcer for the Red Dragons. He's a serious brute. Just two days ago one of his accountants got caught embezzling. I've never seen someone with so many bruises still breathing. Spike used him as a punching bag til he passed out. When he woke up, he had a couple enforcers toss the body into the water. Made us watch as the guy tried to stay afloat.”

 

_Spike did that? Well, there were a few bounties where he didn't hold back … but … he can't be in that deep. Can he?_ Jet tapped a foot. “Get going, then. I don't promise anything.”

 

Iggy shot off for the building and slipped inside a door. Waiting about a minute, Jet followed and crouched near a cracked window. Spike's voice drifted through, cold as ice. “This isn't even half what you should have brought me.”

 

“I know, I can explain,” Iggy replied, “there was a complication.”

 

“Looks like your mouth has got you in trouble. You claimed to be one of the best. That's why I gave you that quadrant. Have I made a mistake in taking your word for it? Complication? What complication?”

 

Silently, Jet pushed open the window and dropped into the warehouse. Near a table in the middle of the room stacked with crates, Spike stood with his back to Jet. Iggy pleaded from the other side. His eyes flew wide as he spied Jet. 

 

With his gun at his side, Jet took a firm stance as he snapped out, “Me.”

 

Spike stiffened. As Iggy backpedaled and fled the warehouse with a shriek, Spike slowly turned around, his hand gripping the gun and bringing it up. In response, Jet raised his gun.

 

Meters apart, they stood in the silent building. Flinty stares locked on one another down the sights of their gun barrels. Jet fought to swallow the lump in his throat. The glint in Spike's eyes unnerved him. Feral, pure feral animal He couldn't even fathom this man laughing at a lame joke over a plate of meatless bell peppers and beef. Banished was the lazy-eyed lunkhead he had been sharing his ship with. In his place, this stranger glared back with unflinching malice. Jet had to blink for a moment to be certain those eyes did not belong to Udai Taxim. When he focused on Spike again he glimpsed the bitter truth. And it struck him like a heat-seeking missile.

 

“Spike … tell me … ” Jet's hands trembled, he placed both hands on the grip as it wavered.

 

Spike's did not. Rock solid as ever, he stared down the sight with his right eye locked on target. 

 

“ … it isn't so.” _I can't do this … I can't shoot him. He's still my partner._

 

Like a statue, Spike remained with the muzzle aimed dead on. Jet's pulse quickened as he noted the slight flex in the trigger finger.

 

“Don't do this, Spike! Don't force me to end things this way.” Jet's eyes pinched tight, just shy of closing. _Does Spike even see me? Does he even know who he's aiming at?_

 

“Spike … it's me … ”

 

Was it a trick of the light or were his pupil's dilated? From here he couldn't tell. 

 

_Oh God, he's not using it? Tell me he didn't find a way to use this shit!_ “Spike—!”

 

BANG! THUCK!

 

Jet rocked back, his gun fell from his limp grasp. He stared in horror at the fragmented metal surrounding the hole punched in his upper left arm. Not the first time he'd taken a shot there … but … his gaze swept up to the figure storming away into the dark warehouse, the Jericho still in his white-knuckled grip. The shadows swallowed him as Jet sunk to his knees. He shivered. Unable to stop the effects as it all came tumbling down on him.

 

_Spike … shot … me._

 

Several minutes passed before he took out his phone and dialed. Bob picked up.  _“Jet? What the heck … ”_

 

“I got an address for you.”

 

“ _Ok … but why the dead tone?”_

 

Jet looked into the distance where Spike had disappeared. “More like a dead partnership.”

 

“ _You can't mean … ”_

 

“It wasn't me. He's the one who blew this.”

 

 


	13. Session 13

 

_**Session thirteen:** _

Iggy's slick-bottomed shoes slipped on the floor as he scrambled between the grip of two enforcers. Fear rimmed his eyes as they dragged him through the primary warehouse toward the waiting figure.

 

Stock-still, Spike glared at their approach. The poker chip flipped in an endless rotation off his thumb. Each tick against the plastic reverberated in the otherwise silent building. Everyone in the newly formed syndicate lined the edges. Not a hint of mercy in anyone's eyes.

 

Before their leader, the enforcers stopped and pressed Iggy's face into the bare floor. He whimpered, his hands restrained by a tight grip.

 

A growl left Spike's throat before he spoke. “You had one job, Iggy.”

 

He squirmed and tried to free his hands. All it did was piss off the men who got rougher. “I'm sorry! That guy threatened to shoot me!”

 

“Oh really?” Spike snarled. “And what do you think I'm gonna do to you now that we lost our secondary warehouse to the ISSP? Hmm? Go on, tell me what you thought this would lead to!”

 

Forcing his head up enough to get a glimpse, tears spilled from his eyes. “Please forgive me!”

 

Tink! The poker chip tumbled from the end of his thumb and struck the ground. It toppled and rolled in a blurry spiral. Crown side up. Iggy's breath locked in his chest.

 

“Sucks for you, pal.” Spike leaned over. “Enforcers, release him.”

 

With a bit of surprise they slowly eased their grip and backed away. Left with no one holding him, Iggy flopped onto his backside and scuttled backward.

 

Spike advanced on him, one fist smacking into his open palm. “You don't think I'm gonna let you slink away to a safe gutter, do you. Not after that betrayal. But it's much more of a lesson if I let you _think_ you have a sporting chance. Go ahead, stand up.”

 

In one slow movement, Iggy tried to get his feet under him. Halfway through the rise, Spike whipped a kick through both legs.

 

Iggy dropped like a rock screaming as his knees bent at an odd angle. “Someone … help me!”

 

No one moved. Every member stood and watched as Spike reached down and grabbed Iggy by his hair, pulling his head back. “You are so far down shit creek that you're past the falls, buddy. There's no damn way back from where you are! The only thing you can do is take your punishment like a man, because you're gonna pay for this.”

 

Bringing his hands together, Iggy flashed a gold molar as he wailed out, “Don't kill me!”

 

Spike flipped him around and brought his face close, smiling like a jackal. “You're gonna regret that request.”

 

* * * * *

 

Up in the penthouse Spike scowled at the maps laid out on the table. His hands rested on them, bruised knuckles dark against his pale skin. A series of knocks on his door disrupted his turbulent thoughts.

 

“Boss, it's us.”

 

“Come in.”

 

The door opened and Kev led three other newly fledged executives into the room. They gathered around the table, eyes focused on Spike. Kev placed a gold molar on the table. “It's done. I can assure you that your uhh … example … had the desired effect. Whispers are already traveling among the syndicate. Everyone is adamant about safeguarding our resources now. No one from the outside will be allowed anywhere close to us.”

 

Spike huffed a breath and pointed to the X slashed over the warehouse on the map. “Thankfully that was our first, and used to stash only the low grade vials. He was lucky it wasn't in the vicinity of our current stock or I would have forced him to live longer. Did you clean up after him?”

 

Kev nodded. “All that remains is preventing this from happening again. You shouldn't meet with those fools. We can't risk it.” Kev glanced at the other three, each one snapped him a quick nod. “So if we may be so bold as to suggest, we'll conduct this step.”

 

“I'm not a coward.” Spike folded his arms. “And I can handle those little shit dealers same as in the old days.”

 

He held up his hands. “Not saying you couldn't, just that … ”

 

“What?” Spike cracked a bruised knuckle.

 

Several gulps filled the air.

 

“You little upstarts think I need you taking my shots? Guarding my back? A lot of good the two enforcers who were there did … reminds me, I need a round with them. They just stood hiding in the shadows and watched as a gun was pointed at me. Who took care of that? Me. Apparently the only one who knows what the fuck he's doing. The only thing we're going to change is where the exchanges happen.” Rubbing his chin he pondered for a moment before stabbing the map. “We have an in with this joint here, and even better, it's under construction, just on hold for the moment. The owner also has a bar, owes us for dealing with the insurance scam, right?”

 

“Yeah. That's the joint.”

 

“The guy's got plenty of floors with easy access. With a little arrangement, we'll use this for regular pay drops and supply runs. If he balks, we can pay him a bit. But not much, unless he wants his buddies extorting him again. I think we'll find him very accommodating.”

 

Kev sucked on his lip for a moment. “ Boss … are you sure you still want to? After that guy almost shot you—”

 

In a blur of motion, Spike grabbed a bottle and shattered it on the edge of the table. The jagged glass kissed Kev's neck. “Are you sure you want to continue speaking?”

 

His Adam's apple bobbed up and down. He offered a slight shake of his head. The other executives all hung back from the table, worry lined their eyes.

 

Releasing him, Spike still brandished the broken bottle as he stabbed a finger at the map. “You wanted to start a syndicate. You wanted to get real in this business. You don't get there by playing it safe! Only the bold survive in this industry. I warned you. I warned each and every one of you that this wasn't a coward's game. You have to be cold and calculating. Now that we have a Red Eye monopoly we can't afford having the ISSP or some other group getting their hands on our stock and diluting the market. We do and it cuts our bottom line and the only one it bleeds is us. What's the principle of a syndicate, boys?”

 

They blinked to one another before replying as one, “Failure means death.”

 

“I don't intend to fail!” He dropped the bottle, it spun to a slow stop in the middle of the table. “Don't dig your own graves. Now, let's move this shit.”

 

 


	14. Session 14

_**Session fourteen:** _

 

Ed reached into Ein's bowl and plucked out a piece of kibble, examining it at all angles. Her tongue stuck out of her mouth as she turned it. With a shake of her head, she dropped it back in the bowl and selected another, equally scrutinizing it. She smiled and shut one eye. With the flick of her wrist she sent it spinning through the air through her target.

 

Ein's tags jangled as he lept into the air and snapped up the piece a few feet out of the exit hole. He licked his lips and danced around in a circle, bowing down in the front.

 

Clapping, Ed sang out, “Eeeeeeyyyyaaaahhh!” She stuck her tongue out again as she selected another piece of kibble and gave it a good whip. It shot straight through the hole and into the corgi's mouth.

 

Setting up for another one, she grinned. The second she released it, Jet growled and slapped his hand over the hole in his synthetic arm, blocking her shot. Instead, he fired off a glare that sent her scuttling back.

 

“That's not funny, Ed!” Jet grabbed a strip of fabric and tied it around the arm.

 

She edged up closer on all fours, scrunching up her nose. “Are you mad?”

 

“No.” He folded his arms across his chest and huffed.

 

“Are you mad cause Spike-person made a hole in you?”

 

“Grrr!” His eyebrow twitched.

 

Ein barked pointedly at her. She cocked her head. “Ein says you can fix it. No big deal.”

 

Jet brought a fist down on the table. “Who says it's a big deal? Nobody said anything about it being anything. Just stop using it to feed Ein!”

 

Eyeing him over her magazine, Faye shook her head. “Face it, you've been grumpy ever since you came back. This is what happens when men get all self-centered and think they can do it all. If you'd called me I could have been there. Maybe then you wouldn't have a whistle every time there is a breeze.”

 

Jet scowled at her.

 

“I'm not surprised. You men are such babies. It's no wonder that you choked on the trigger.”

 

“Oh? And you think you could have done it?”

 

Faye closed the magazine and set it on the table. She fixed him with a dull stare, but behind her eyes boiled images of Spike with his hands all over that floozy. “Shot that lunkhead? I would have emptied my clip into him.”

 

“Fine. You think you can get to him? The next lead we get I'll send your ass out there.” He spread his hands wide in frustration. “I'm telling you, that wasn't the Spike we know standing there. The look in his eyes … it was cold, brutal.”

 

Faye stiffened, her eyes widened. “Vicious?”

 

“Something happened. He's not the same guy.”

 

She forced herself to shake it off. “You've been with him for years, Jet. This is beyond odd … and yet, he did drop everything and blow up the syndicate he was once loyal too. So … maybe … ”

 

When she didn't continue, Jet cocked his head. “Maybe what?”

 

“Maybe you didn't really understand him.”

 

“ _That_ much, Faye? I find that hard to believe.”

 

She narrowed her eyes. “Honestly, so do I. You know, he did hit his head a lot. Maybe it's some kind of concussion that rattled his wits. So if we use Spike's logic we just hit him real hard for a reset.”

 

Ed slunk along the back of a couch like a panther. “Grrr … we sneaks up and then we pounce!” She flung herself from the top and landed on Ein. The poor alarmed dog squealed and scrambled out of her grip. He tore down the hallway and vanished.

 

Jet slouched in the chair. “Well, I can tell you the only meal he'll get from me when I see him next is a knuckle sandwich! And I'll make sure my arm gets the revenge shot!”

 

The in-coming call alert popped up. Jet rammed the button and shouted, “What?”

 

From the screen, Bob blinked widened eyes. _“Uhh, is this a bad time?”_

 

Faye shook her head and sighed. “Lately when isn't it?”

 

“ _Good point.”_ Bob rested his chin on his palm. _“Well, I got news.”_

 

“What kind of news? Good or bad?” Jet folded his arms across his chest.

 

“ _The kind we've been specializing in of late. Dismal. That guy you came across, the dealer. Did he look like this?”_ An on-file perp photo appeared on the screen of Iggy.

 

“Yeah, that's the hapless piece of shit alright.”

 

Bob frowned.  _“Well, then it's a was. A beat cop down by the docks found pieces of him this morning, not far from the warehouse you uncovered. The stock within there wasn't the high grade. Looks like it was a low-quality reserve. Nothing scored close to the red in the gauge.”_

 

“That means they gotta have another place.” Jet rubbed his beard. “Somewhere for the premium.”

 

“ _And likely Iggy wasn't let in on that. But I still don't like what we're seeing. This is going beyond a small operation. Best I can gauge Spike is aiming at a big score. And you know what that means, Jet.”_

 

He grit his teeth. “If it comes to that I want to pull the trigger.”

 

“ _He's your partner.”_

 

“Ex-partner.”

 


	15. Session 15

**Session fifteen:**

 

Jackson's laughter rankled Bob all the way down the hall. The meeting had been nothing but a brutal smackdown of how this new syndicate was running unchecked all over the ISSP. Bold, and yet untouchable. This operation had become a massive entity in record time for no reason or rhyme that was obvious … to any but Bob. He'd kept his mouth clamped shut the entire time. At last, released from the tight-tipped hell, he wandered through the halls trying to escape the braying of that arrogant scumbag.

 

Jackson, the sound of his name was enough to clench his fists. If that jerk thought it was as easy as he claimed, why didn't he set himself on taking out this drug ring? Nope, time and time again he dragged in the street trash, acting like he was the best thing since a one-strike match.

 

An object lying in the middle of the hall caught his eye. Someone had dropped their phone. Picking it up he turned it on and flipped through in hopes of finding who it belonged to. His eyes widened as he darted into a bathroom and locked the stall.

 

Numbers spilled on the screen as IDs for the most recent conversation over the course of two days. Shit! A gods-be-damned burner phone. Of course there was no way of telling whose it was. Rapidly Bob realized as he read the conversation it didn't matter. Right place, right time and he soon would know!

 

_1357: Word on the street has located the head. Location is Ganymede._

 

_6942: That much was known._

 

_1357: Near your waterfront. Target has full op running._

 

_6942: Can you reach him?_

 

_1375: Yes._

 

_6942: I want him eliminated. 7584 is on his way. Set up a meeting, between the three of us we'll rip this upstart's spine out of his mouth for ruining our take. I will savor every moment of it._

 

_1375: Message sent through my channel. Awaiting reply._

 

_1375: Deal set up. Tonight, seven-fifteen. Location is the Dirkridge office building construction site. Eighth floor._

 

_6942: Received message from 7584, arrived on Ganymede a few minutes ago. See you both at the party. Don't be late._

 

Bob's heart raced. He glanced under the stalls to make sure he was alone. Immediately he took out his own phone and dialed Jet. The moment he picked up, Bob panted. “Breakthrough! Jet, there's a meeting set up.”

 

“ _Between?”_

 

“No names are in the messages I intercepted, but I'm fairly sure they mean Spike.”

 

“ _They who? You mean the Red Eye evidence locker thieves?”_

 

Bob nodded. “Yes. They're pissed because the new syndicate is shutting out their operation. They mean to kill the new ring leader.”

 

“ _Not if I get to his ass first! Where and when?”_

 

“You know the Dirkridge construction site?”

 

“ _That eyesore?”_

 

“The same. Seven-fifteen on the eighth floor. We time this right we can—”

 

Jet cut him off with a snort. _“Keep your sting. I just want to beat the snot out of that lousy piece of shit traitor!”_

 

Bob held up a hand. “Your call.” He glanced at his watch. “Crap, we don't have much time. It's almost seven!”

 

The signal cut. Bob tucked the burner phone in his pocket and headed out of the bathroom, tugging his hat low over his face. Adapting a dejected posture, he slouched down the hall, the weight of the gun against his hip brought a bit of comfort. The halls were practically deserted after the meeting.

 

The moment he left the building he tore down the steps and jumped into a squad car. Pushing it all the way, he opened the throttle to full as he forced the car on the path to the site. Being late to an ambush stake out was not the best strategy. But at last they had a solid lead.

 

* * * * *

 

Spike trudged along the edge of the waterfront with his hands in his pockets. Behind him the shadows of his men drifted off on a task, his latest orders to them. They had fought him every minute, but word on the street was that their warehouses were compromised. This was not a time to leave it all in one place. It would take hours, even for the full crew to move the current stash and relocate it. The echoes of their annoyed remarks rang in his ears.

 

He hadn't cared one bit. This was their job. And he went on to do his. He had an appointment to keep.

 

The shadow of the building cast over him, swallowing his own shadow. He plucked out the butt of the cigarette and flicked it. The crane sat in stasis over the site. The ninth floor only half covered the eighth. Debris lay strewn everywhere in the reddish hue of early evening.

 

This secluded place had been ideal for the deals. Plenty of access points, lots of shadowy places to wait in, and most normal people avoided construction sites for safety reasons. Perfection, as far as Spike was concerned. He gazed up at the skeletal tower and pondered buying the place and leaving it as is. After all, it truly was a marvelous front. The owner ran into financial trouble when a local gang extorted him for _protection money._ Poor schmuck. Spike had to laugh. In the end the guy only succeeded in neutering his own business potential. Sure, Spike's crew put an end to that racket, but it only meant that the man owned Spike a boon instead. Unfettered access to this place was that very fee.

 

In the gathering evening, a raven drifted on the current and landed on a window ledge. He peered inside the window, cocked his head first one way, then another. Releasing a harsh caw, he turned and gazed at Spike with beady eyes.

 

“Heh, well now, what're you lookin' at?”

 

Raising a ruckus, the bird puffed his feathers before he flapped off into the rays of the setting sun.

 

Spike's lazy gaze followed the path. He snuffed a breath and pushed the door to the building open.

 


	16. Session 16

**Session sixteen:**

 

Bob edged up the stairs in the construction site. Beads of sweat dripped down his forehead as he fought to keep his steps from echoing in the chamber. His watch read seven-twelve. The only sound was the wind gusting through the structure. He shivered even though the humid evening still clung to the warmth of day. The shadows grew long in the setting sun around the looming mass of Jupiter.

 

A ruckus rose above him. He ducked into the shadows and reached for his gun.

 

A flock of birds took to flight from a ledge.

 

For a long moment, Bob's heartbeat thundered in his ears. He re-holstered his gun and climbed the next flight of stairs. The half finished eighth floor stretched out before him. Bare concrete lined with naked columns, cords from tools snaked along the floor, chains for construction use lay abandoned in various lengths. No windows cut off the wind. This place gave him the creeps.

 

Footprints? He bent down and the disturbed construction dust displayed layers of footprints. Some far more recent than others. Following the tracks he glanced into a hidden alcove and his breath locked in his chest.

 

Two men lay unconscious, back to back. A chain bound their wrists and ankles. On the ground, a busted phone the same model as the burner he'd found. He recognized both of the men. Orlov from Callisto lay with his head lolled to the side, a gigantic goose egg blossoming through his hairline. The other man was an officer from here, Bob had glimpsed him in the halls and suspected he worked in evidence as he was most commonly seen there.

 

Standing upright he quirked a brow. _What the heck happened here?_ Silence stretched out, the gears clicking into place. Ganymede evidence man sneaks out the Red Eye to Orlov on Callisto. But … that was only two. Who was the final man?

 

The crack of knuckles echoed in the space between the floors.

 

Bob turned slowly, his eyes locked on the V-shaped scar. Jackson huffed a breath, “Well, well, well, would you take at look at who showed up. So you're the piece of shit that's been tanking my scheme. Little piss-ant. Never woulda thought it was you. Heh, it's always the guys you don't think have shit for brains.”

 

Fortunately there was a distance between them. Unfortunately, Jackson blocked the route to the stairwell, the only way out besides an eight story drop. Panic rose in Bob's chest, but he did his all not to show it.

 

“Pretty slick that you took out my boys. Looks like there's more fight to you than meets the eye.” Jackson pulled out a vial of Red Eye and squirted a generous amount into each eye. He twitched and smiled the toothy-grin of a predator. “Time to pound the cement with a beat cop!”

 

Bob darted backward, the drug's savage reputation driving his instincts. He fought to coordinate a grab for his gun and missed. Jackson's massive fist careening toward him.

 

There one moment in-coming like the grill of a speeding semi-truck. Gone the next in a harsh exhalation of forced air as a shadow dove down from the unfinished overhang of the ninth floor. Bob fell back against the wall, his assailant diverted by some intervention from above. Across the shadow strewn floor Jackson rolled, tangled in the clanking chain wielded by … Spike?

 

No words left the two, in a round of brutal blows, the men tussled. Spike lashed out with the chain, tangling Jackson's limbs until he grew sick of the thing and wrenched it free, discarding it across the flood. Every time one tried to gain footing the other dragged them back into the fray. Jackson's bloodshot eyes remained wide as Spike drove his fist into the man's cheek. He'd just narrowly avoided a blow to his nose. Now on the receiving end, Spike rolled his shoulder out of a direct strike, turning it into a glancing blow.

 

They rose to their feet, grappling one another. Sweat droplets flung into the dusk, gleaming red in the dying light. Spike's expression bore grim determination as he fought to stay outside the blows. If they landed, he rotating with the motion in an obvious move to lessen the blow. Jackson's no-holds-barred attacks advanced. Despite Spike's efforts, he was loosing ground, backing toward the construction elevator shaft.

 

Bob's fingers twitched on the gun, but he abandoned the effort. The men were two close, any shot stood a chance of nailing them both. He held his breath watching the ferocity of Jackson's accelerated pace. He'd never witnessed the full blown fury of the drug. The fists so fast that he could not even hope to follow them. How Spike was managing even a partial evasion was beyond him, let alone landing blows. Jackson sported a few growing bruises.

 

Teetering on the edge of the shaft, Spike spared a glance over his shoulder as soon as Jackson backed away long enough to wipe blood from above his eye. Jackson spat out a mouthful of blood. “You. Hah. So it wasn't that beat cop, it was _you_ who started the syndicate.”

 

Spike rasped out a breath and laughed. “What's the matter, don't like competition, Jackass?”

 

Jackson snorted, “I'll show you what I do to those who steal from me!” He rushed toward Spike.

 

The moment the distance closed, Spike grabbed onto his arm and spun him around throwing him over the edge of the shaft. But Jackson seized his wrist and Spike's alarmed expression was the last thing Bob glimpsed as they plummeted into the immense crash below.

 

“NO!” Bob screamed and darted to the edge. Peering down he spied Jackson laying on the floor face down. Spike had landed in an awkward heap on a pile debris on the elevator. Both figures remained utterly motionless.

 


	17. Session 17

**Session seventeen:**

 

Bob's side ached as he darted around the stairwell and took the flight two steps at a time. His mind tried desperately to put together all the pieces of the last few minutes. Under the adrenaline rush he had no hope. Stumbling onto the seventh floor he glanced between the two figures.

 

Spike still lay motionless, sprawled at a cocked angle on the debris. His chest moved up and down. He was alive, but his eyes were closed. Jackson's shaking limbs edged him up off the ground, he panted hoarsely. The light in his eyes gleamed even in the growing darkness. A guttural howl left his throat as he shambled across the ground.

 

Darting between them, Bob's heart raced. He met the insane gleam in Jackson's eyes and he took several steps back. The hollow stare seemed more akin to beast than man. Every step Jackson took shuddered. Blood seeped from half a dozen wounds, but the man heeded none of them, not even the awkward kink of his ankle.

 

“Don't … ” a raspy voice came from behind. Bob took a glance over his shoulder. Spike's half open eyes stared straight at Jackson. Every breath he took was a tight gasp. “Don't approach … Close now … Let it … fall out.”

 

Bob edged back, closer to Spike. The fire in Jackson's eyes intensified as the distance gradually closed. Spittle from his harsh breathing pelted Bob's face. So close now he could see every micro-fire of the man's muscles.

 

Jackson threw his fists into the air and screamed as if to throw a tremendous punch. His body jerked tense, every muscle locked before he dropped like a limp rag.

 

Blinking, Bob let his own tension go. He flopped back against the iron support column for the construction elevator and fought to catch his breath.

 

A tight laugh escaped Spike. “Jackass didn't even know when to quit. Owww!” He held his side. “Hey Bob … can I stop pretending to be a raging dick now?”

 

He cocked an eyebrow and glanced between the two, the unconscious cop and the rogue bounty hunter. Spike offered him a half-hearted grin before a twinge of pain stole it. He hadn't even tried to get up. Carefully, Bob edged up onto the platform and offered a hand to him.

 

Spike shook his head. “Not yet. Just give me a bit longer, ok? Didn't exactly land the best.”

 

“Are you alright?”

 

“From this? For starters, this was a lot shorter than the cathedral window.” He shifted each foot experimentally. “Ehh, well … not paralyzed. So, I'll walk away from this. Wasn't entirely how I planned on wrapping this into a neat little bow. But overall that was the desired effect.”

 

“Wait,” Bob scratched his head, “what?”

 

Carefully, and with a few grunts, Spike edged himself up to a sitting position. “Heh, if I had you and Jet convinced I'd gone back to syndicate life, I could convince anyone. That was the plan.”

 

“But the armored vehicle theft, the ring, the warehouses … Spike, you set up a—”

 

“Monopoly. That was the idea.” This time his full lazy-grin was on display. “How else do you get someone like Jackass's attention? I figured pretty early on in he'd needed help. And the best way to get him to show his hand was to force it. Best way to do that was staging a rather public hostile take-over of the trade. His greed did the rest once I had a target painted on my back.”

 

“Then, you knew this was a trap?”

 

Spike laughed, then winced. “Oh yeah. Smelled it a mile away. That's why I sent the crew off, didn't want them to get caught in the cross-hairs. A guy on that shit … well you know … not just anyone can stand the time in the ring. I've had practice,” he sighed, “unfortunately.”

 

Glancing over at the unconscious cop, Bob shook his head. “Damn. I better call this in.”

 

Spike nodded and winked. “By the way, you're welcome for collecting all the Red Eye into one easy access warehouse.”

 

In mid-dial, Bob's jaw hung loose.

 

“Just wait a bit to raid it, let the guys get clear. Seriously, I didn't school them enough to be able to do this shit on their own.” He plucked a cigarette out of his jacket and lit it. Listening as Bob stuttered through the report.

 

After Bob hung up he shuffled over to Jackson and cuffed his hands behind his back just in case. “Well, shit, Spike. I honestly thought we'd have to bring your ass in after this. I can't believe you let this go so far.”

 

He shrugged. “You asked someone who knows the ins and outs to flush your game. How did you think this was gonna go, Bob? You can ask Jet, going to far is one thing I have alotta experience in.”

 

A snorting laugh escaped Bob. “Guess so. But you really had us.”

 

“That was the idea.” Spike winked. A split-second later his head snapped up in an expression of shock.

 

Bob turned just in time to see Jet bull rush across the floor. He didn't have time for anything besides holding out a hand. Jet drove the fist of his synthetic arm into Spike's right eye. Spike's body flopped back, driven by the force. He exhaled in a violent rush as Jet grabbed his shirt and yanked him back up. Spike didn't resist. His already swelling eye half closed and turned toward Jet's potential assault. Jet's raised fist shivered with fury.

 

Spike rasped, “I know! I know, I deserve it!”

 

Without even thinking, Bob grabbed Jet's shoulders. “Stop! He's with us!”

 

“The bastard shot me!” Jet snarled.

 

“I didn't **want** to shoot you, Jet. I **had** to. So... go ahead, do what you gotta do.” Spike shut his eyes and visibly braced.

 

In that singular plea Jet's grip slackened. Spike toppled backward onto the pile with a groan, the remainder of cigarette God knew where. “Had to?”

 

Bob nodded. “Your partner didn't betray us, Jet. He saved my ass and he set this whole trap up to catch Jackson and his cohorts. Ease off him.”

 

“Spike, explain to me why in the _hell_ you had to pull the damn the trigger on me. And I better like it! You know this is the second time I've been on the other side of a partner's gun.”

 

Shivering, Spike cupped the side of his face. His eyes remained closed. “You weren't supposed to be in the warehouse. No one was supposed to have seen me yet. It was too early. But there were others, my men, in the wings of the warehouse. If they had seen me not do it … they would have smelled a rat. They would have killed me. Trust me … I aimed for a shot that would do the least damage. And it almost killed me to do it.”

 

Jet leaned back, his hands opening limp. He stared without uttering a word.

 

Bob cleared his throat. “Hey, Jet? Your partner is looking a bit green there. You might want to get him out of here and checked for a concussion. I think you gave him one.”

 

Spike whimpered behind closed eyes. “He did.”

 

With a start, Jet reached down and edged Spike up letting him lean on his shoulder like he had so many times before. “Alright, you just stay with me now. You know how this works—no nodding off until we know how bad this is.”

 

Spike moaned as he shuffled his feet towards the stairwell. “How about puking … can I puke?”

 

“Ehhh, prefer you didn't, pard.”

 

“No promises.”

 

* * * * *

 

The _Bebop_ cut through Ganymede's artificial atmosphere heading for the gate en route to Mars. Bob wandered into the living room grateful for the lift back to Mars after having settled things verbally with internal affairs. Faye painted her nails as she sat on the chair. Snoring on the couch, Spike had a rather sizable ice-pack over his right eye.

 

Faye glanced up at Bob and snickered. “Don't worry about him. He's got a thick skull.”

 

“That's not very nice.”

 

“Well, Spike's not very bright. Which is why we need to constantly buy stock in bandages. So, there it is.” She smiled sweetly. “Frankly, if you ask me, the loose-handed mongrel should have gotten more than this for the bite he took of Candy.”

 

Spike shifted the ice pack and glanced at her with his one good eye, the other lid a dark purple and swollen shut. “Candy? Wait a sec, how did you find about her?”

 

Faye caped her nail polish bottle harder than she wished and spat, “Surprised you even remember that tramp, you were so blitzed out of your mind!”

 

“Blitzed?” Spike scratched his cheek. “At the casino? Hah, wow, guess I'm a better actor than I thought.”

 

“You mean you … but you were … I saw you from behind the plant!”

 

He laughed. “You think I woulda been shooting high stakes craps drunk off my ass? No way. I got way more sense than you, Faye. I'd been acting drunk while swishing whiskey shots all afternoon trying to catch the eye of a mark. And it worked. The floozy was his set of eyes. A guy who doesn't melt into her is cause for alarm. I had to play along. Nothing happened, well not like in those cheap novels you like, anyway.”

 

She blushed.

 

“Damn, you thought I was drunk. Hah!”

 

“Shut up!”

 

Bob shook his head and approached as Spike sat up rather slowly on the couch to light a cigarette. “Hey, I have something for you.”

 

Spike put his lighter away and took the offered woolong card. “Let's see the chicken-scratch they think my service was worth. Typical ISSP will probably dock me for damages, like usual.”

 

Faye grumbled. “You _did_ heist an armored vehicle.”

 

“Yeah, I needed that to speed up the process. And I also collected all the Red Eye for them and handed that over. That shit was over ten times the value.” He took out the reader and swiped it. His eye widened. He blinked, looked again. Only a faint squeal escaped his throat.

 

Faye leaned over his shoulder and gawked. Her finger tried to wipe away total. “Is that decimal point in the wrong spot?”

 

Laughing a bit, Bob put a hand on Spike's shoulder. “Oh, they appreciated it, I think that's obvious. Same as me. Gonna love that promotion when I get home.”

 

“You're welcome … ” Spike whispered, still staring. “Damn, that'll buy a shitload of Peking Duck.”

 

* * * * *

 

Mars loomed on the horizon as they exited the gate. Spike, still gazing through one eye padded up onto the bridge, a bit more sheepish than usual. Jet stood at the windows gazing down at the planet's growing surface. He didn't glace over his shoulder as Spike joined him.

 

“Hey uhh … Jet,” his one-eyed gaze flicked to the hole in the arm. “I mean it. I really am sorry I had to pull the trigger.”

 

“Mmmph.”

 

Spike's head sunk a bit lower. “And I … appreciate you letting me back on the ship. I woulda understood if you'd left my ass stranded on Ganymede.”

 

“Mmm.” His crossed arms tightened.

 

He heaved a sigh, “When we land on Mars I want to make it up to you.”

 

Jet huffed a breath. “I doubt you can.”

 

Spike eyed his damaged arm. “Fix that. On me.”

 

A slow blink widened his eyes.

 

“Good as gone, pard. Cause I really feel like shit having done that to you.”

 

“You can afford it?” Jet gawked.

 

Spike shrugged a shoulder. “Yeah. After the huge payment the ISSP gave me for helping Bob. Hell, we could even get you a neat piece of artwork on there, if you want. Whatdya say, the _Bebop_ 's numbers?”

 

Jet smirked and was about to reply when the alarm sounded. The both raced back to the screen where the hanger door release displayed. “What the—who?”

 

A moment later Faye's _Redtail_ soared out. _“Cya boys, off to feed the ponies!”_

 

“Ponies?” Spike scratched his head. “I thought she was... oh shit—she didn't!” He pulled out his reader and choked. “That bitch robbed me!”

 

Jet called out, “Oh Ed, wanna try out your new toy?”

 

The sound of an airplane filled the bridge as Ed and Ein came wheeling in.

 

Spike plastered himself on the window.

 

“Hold on, partner. After you pulled your little early morning vanishing act, I had Ed work on a little software.”

 

At the window she grinned, her fingers on the joystick and buttons of a controller. “Power on. Synched. And here … we … go! Neeeeeeerrrrrrrrrrrrrrrooowwwww!”

 

The _Redtail_ began to turn in a slow arc back toward the ship. Faye's irate voice broke out over the com, _“What the hell? Why can't I—shit! Why am I headed back?”_

 

“Oh, you're not going anywhere, Romani!” Jet grinned. “Not while I got Ed hacked into your MONOsystem.”

 

Spike snickered, “Nice try, old man. Unlike Faye, I can fly mine without the system.”

 

Jet lit a cigarette cooly before he grinned at Spike. “And we both thought of that detail.”

 

The smirk fell off Spike's face. “Wait, what did you do to my ship? … Jet, I'm serious. Tell me!”

 

Ed laughed as she took Faye for a ride, turning the craft here and there all the while Faye moaned through the com. _“I'm gonna be sick!”_

 

Looking out the window, Jet puffed his chest out and smiled as he relished the last laugh. The whole lot of them, wayward children. High maintenance wayward children. But they were his chosen family after all—regardless of how he fate forced him to keep them.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See You Space Cowboy ...


End file.
